'A.  / / /! 


pp 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
I ) LIBRARY 


ES. 


From  the  collection  of 
Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918. 


809.3 

^ / /n 


■ ^ /, 


^ l 2 l/  ^ 

..<y±  /v 

obtained  by  M 

J 



/I 

of. 

/ 

? r-y/ 

yp  >i4 

The  Superior,  /? 

/-•- 

/t.  ! 

The  Professor, 


L161 — H41 


DISS^IBUSIOR  OB  PRIZES. 


ST.  MICHAEL’S  COLLEGE. 


TOBONTO, 


June, 


.i8g  A 


■x 


(pTZZC 


S 1 


C , f 

^ , 4 ^ M A.  / 

./ 7 


obtained  by  M - / 

of_ I 

’.  7- 


The  Superior, 

The  Professor, 


4 


— 5 


L 161 — H41 


# • 


/ 


MODERN 


NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS 


& i?ooE  of  Criticisms 


MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAN,  A.M 


NEW  YORK 


WILLIAM  H.  SADLIER 
ii  Barclay  Street 


Copyrighted,  t888 

Ey  william  h.  sadlier 


The  author  begs  leave  to  acknowledge  his  obligation  to  the  editor  of 
The  Catholic  World  for  permission  to  Use  much  of  the  material  in  this 
volume. 


fo<t  -3 


THIS  BOOK 
is 

RESPECTFULLY  AND  AFFECTIONATELY 

gjeilixafced 

TO 

His  Grace,  the  Most  Reverend 

MICHAEL  AUGUSTINE  CORRIGAN,  D.D. 

Archbishop  or  New  York. 


700118 


PREFACE. 


yHE  author  of  “Modern  Novels  and  Novelists’' 
is  anxious  that  his  young  friends — wandering 
in  gardens  of  romance  which  in  these  days  are  par- 
ticularly pleasant  and  alluring — shall  have  a guide 
who  will  warn  them  against  the  weeds  growing 
among  the  flowers  of  the  Active  art,  and  who  will 
also,  in  a critical-botanical  way,  dissect  the  high- 
est products  of  the  gardener’s  work.  This  guide — 
the  author  humbly  offers  himself  for  that  position 
— wants  to  teach  one  lesson  thoroughly:  that 
thoughtless  and  indiscriminate  novel-reading  is  to 
the  soul  what  opium  is  to  all  the  faculties. 


CONTENTS 


NAME. 

Alcott,  Louisa  M 
Ames,  F.  S.  D... 
Anon 


Anstey  F 

Astor,  W.  W 
Austin,  Mrs.. 


TITLE.  PAGE 

Jo’s  Boys 90 

.Wishes  on  Wings 20 

Constance  of  Arcadia 30 

Life  of  a Prig 42 

A Demi-God 140 

Fallen  Idol 90 

Valentino 170 

Friend  Sorrow 143 


Balzac,  Plonore  de Cesar  Birotteau 

Besant,  Walter Katharine  Regina 

Children  of  Gibeon 

Black,  William Sabina  Zembra 

Blackmore,  Mary  Anerley.  . Springhaven 

Braddon,  M.  E Like  and  Unlike 

Broughton,  Rhoda Dr.  Cupid 

Bunner,  H.  C The  Story  of  a New  York  House. . . . 

The  Midge 


53 

80 

156 

108 

135 

125 

144 

10 

11 


Collins,  Wilkie  Little  Novels 

Cooke,  Rose  Terry The  Sphynx’s  Children. . . 

Craddock,  Chas.  Egbert. . .In  the  Clouds 

Craven,  Mrs Le  Valbriant 

Crawford, _F.  Marion... . . . Marzio’s  Crucifix 

A Tale  of  a Lonely  Parish. 

Paul  Patoff 

Saracinesca 


. . . .120 
....  169 

145 

....164 
....  25 
....  53 
87 

ii6,  145 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


NAME.  TITLE.  PAGE 

Dahlgren,  Madeline  Vinton  The  Lost  Name 49 

Dostoieffsky,  Theodor  . . . .Crime  and  its  Punishment 120 

Durand,  Madame Count  Xavier 143 


Ebers,  George 

.The  Bride  of  the  Nile 

Elliott,  S.  B 

.The  Felmeres 

..  46 

Farjeon,  B.  L 

.Miser  Farebrother 

..  83 

Feuillet,  Octave 

.La  Morte 

••  55 

Frederic,  Harold 

.Seth’s  Brother’s  Wife 

. . 28 

Greene,  Homer 

.The  Blind  Brother 

..  19 

Greey,  Edward 

.The  Captive  of  Love 

Habberton,  John 

.Country  Luck 

. . 17 

Haggard,  H.  Rider 

.King  Solomon’s  Mines 

..  13 

Dawn 

• . 13 

Jess * 

Allan  Quatermain 

Hamerton,  Philip  Gilbert. 

.Golden  Mediocrity 

. . 94 

Hamlin,  Myra  Sawyer  . . . 

.A  Politician’s  Daughter 

Hardy  A.  S. . . 

.The  Wind  of  Destiny 

..  63 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler. . . . 

.Free  Joe 

..  86 

Harte,  Bret 

.A  Millionaire  of  Rough  and  Ready. 

. .105 

Henderson,  Isaac 

.The  Prelate : . . . 

..  44 

Hoey,  Mrs.  Cashel 

.The  Strange  Adventures  of  Dr.  Quies.125 

Howard,  Blanche  Willis. . 

.Tony  the  Maid . . . 

. .127 

Howe,  E.  W 

. The  Moonlight  Boy 

..168 

Howells,  William  Dean  . . 

.April  Hopes 

. . 27 

The  Minister’s  Charge 

Indian  Summer 

..171 

Jackson,  Helen 

.Zeph 

James,  Henry. 

, .Princess  Casamassima 

Jeffries,  Richard 

, .Amaryllis  at  the  Fair 

Jewett,  Sarah  Orne 

.Marsh  Rosemary 

. . 92 

Deephaven 

■ .139 

Johnson,  Virginia  W ..  . . 

.The  House  of  the  Musician 

-143 

Keenan,  Henry  F 

.The  Aliens . , 

. . 61 

Kickham,  Charles  J 

.For  the  Old  Land 

..156 

CONTENTS, 


IX 


NAME. 

Laffan,  Mary 

Lawless,  Lady  Emily. 
Lee,  Vernon 

Lillie,  John 

Ludlow,  Rev.  James.. 
Luska,  Sidney 

Lyall,  Edna 

Lytton,  Lord 


TITLE.  TAGE 

.Ismay’s  Children 131 

Hurrish. 58 

Juvenilia 72 

Baldwin 100 

.The  Strange  Adventure  of  Dr.  Quies.  125 

.The  Captain  of  the  J anizaries 41 

Yoke  of  the  Thorah 5 

Mrs.  Peixada  163 

.Knight  Errant 113 

.Baldine 73 


Macquoid,  Katharine. 

Mallock,  W.  H 

Meredith,  George. . . . 
Mitchell,  S.  Weir 
Molesworth,  Mrs. . . , 

Montauban,  G 

Mulholland,  Rosa. . . , 


Joan  Wentworth 96 

The  Old  Order  Changes 96 

Beauchamp’s  Career 123 

.Roland  Blake 111 

.Marriage.  ...  15 

.The  Cruise  of  the  Woman  Hater  ...  .119 
.Marcella  Grace 155 


Navery,  Raoul  de 


The  Castle  of  Coetquen 69 


Oliphant,  Mrs.  Agnes A Country  Gentleman 177 

O’Meara,  Kathleen Narka  22 

Ouida A House  Party 144 


Picard,  George  H Old  Boniface 91 

Mission  Flower 173 

Phelps,  Elizabeth  Stuart.. . .The  Gates  Between 78 


Reid,  Christian Miss  Churchill 


105 


Shorthouse,  J.  H Sir  Perceval 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis. . .Kidnapped 

Prince  Otto 

Stockton,  Frank Hundredth  Man 

The  Late  Mrs.  Null 

The  Casting  away  of  Mrs.  Leeks. 

Story,  William  Wetmore.  . .Fiammetta 

Sturgis,  Julian John  Maidment 


138 

32 

69 

27 

56 

90 

175 

163 


X 


CONTENTS . 


NAME. 

TITLE. 

PAGE 

Tadema,  Laurence 

.Love’s  Martyr 

Thoroddssen,  Jon  Thords- 
son 

.Sigfrid 

Tincker,  M.  A 

. Aurora 

...63 

Tolstoi,  Count 

.Katia 

...  t3 

My  Religion 

•••59 

Anna  Karenina 

The  Cossacks 

War  and  Peace 

Valera,  Seiior  Juan 

.Pepita  Ximinez 

...  36 

Walloch,  Wilhelm 

.The  King’s  Treasure  House  . . . . 

Warden,  Florence 

.Scheherezade 

...125 

Westall,  W . . . 

.Her  Two  Millions 

...29 

Wharton,  Thomas 

. Hannibal  of  New  York 

....  91 

Whitney,  A.  D.  T 

.Bonnyborough 

Wilson,  Augusta  Evans.. . 

.At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius 

...84 

Woolson.  Abba  Gould.. . . 

.George  Eliot  and  her  Heroines.  . . 

...  38 

Woolson,  Constance  Feni 

- 

more 

.Rodman  the  Keeper 

...154 

East  Angels 

•••157 

Yonge,  Charlotte  M 


A Modern  Telemachus 


T38 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


i. 

The  way  of  the  American  novelist  is  not  easy.  It  is 
true  that  the  incomes  of  writers  seem  to  be  better  than 
they  used  to  be,  and  that  the  Bohemian,  out  at  elbows  and 
out  of  pocket,  is  now  rare.  Nevertheless  authors  do  not 
earn  much  from  the  sale  of  their  novels  printed  in  book- 
form.  The  English  competition  is  too  great.  When  a 
man  can  buy  the  latest  noted  English  novel  for  twenty 
cents,  why  should  he  spend  a dollar  or  a dollar  and  a half 
for  an  American  work  of  fiction?  Publishers  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic  have  only  to  reprint  the  works  of  English 
writers  and  to  fill  the  news-stands  with  them.  They  are 
obliged  to  pay  no  royalty  to  the  author,  as  we  all  know. 
Haggard’s  She , for  instance,  which  is  just  now  the  most 
popular  current  novel,  may  bring  the  author  a few  pounds 
sterling  from  the  Messrs.  Harper  & Bros.  Outside  of  what 
they  pay  him  he  will  receive  nothing  tor  his  book. 

Similarly,  General  Lew  Wallace’s  Ben-Hur  is  printed, 
mutilated,  by  a London  publishing  firm.  It  is  probable 
that  he  will  get  no  royalty  on  the  large  sales  of  his  book. 
In  the  United  States  the  success  of  this  novel  has  been 
phenomenal.  Here  his  profits  have  been  large.  General 
Wallace  is  one  of  the  few — very  few — American  writers 
who  could  exist  decently  without  the  magazines  or  literary 
syndicates. 


4 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


As  novels — after  the  newspapers — are  more  read  in  this 
year  of  our  Lord  than  any  other  form  of  thought  or 
thoughtlessness  put  into  printed  words,  the  effect  of  the 
deluge  of  English  stories  cannot  be  favorable  to  the  growth 
of  robust  American  ideas.  There  is  a greater  danger  than 
that  “ spread-eagleism  ” which  made  the  American  a theme 
for  amusement.  And  this  danger  is  that  our  young  people 
will  become  impregnated  with  ideas  of  life  unsuited  to 
their  condition,  and  filled  with  the  desire  of  imitating  not 
only  English  manners  and  customs,  but  English  ways  of 
looking  at  social  problems. 

English  manners  and  customs  are  generally  very  good 
— when  they  are  not  low-bred  and  cockney.  And  if  our 
American  hostesses  who  give  dinners  choose  to  send  their 
guests  to  table  arranged  according  to  the  rules  of  English 
precedence,  who  shall  find  fault?  Where  the  American 
citizen  is,  there  is  the  head  of  the  table — even  if  it  be  the 
foot.  If  young  ladies  begin  to  look  with  scorn  on  the 
corn-fields  and  pumpkin  crops  of  their  native  land,  and  long 
for  the  green  lanes  and  picturesque  coppices  painted  by 
English  writers,  it  does  not  make  them  worthy  of  severe 
criticism.  But  it  shows  that  the  sentiment  of  patriotism 
is  weakened  at  the  root.  The  American  who  has  not  the 
feeling  of  love  for  the  little  things  of  his  native  land  may 
be  willing  to  sacrifice  much  for  her,  but  his  sacrifice  will 
always  lack  the  fervor  and  spontaneity  of  the  men  who  love 
Scottish  moors,  Irish  bogs,  or  English  lanes  with  a tender- 
ness that,  in  comparison,  makes  the  luxuriance  of  the 
tropics  seem  bleak  and  colorless.  Until  Americans  feel 
this  their  patriotism  will  always  seem  to  be  boastful  in 
spite  of  its  sincerity,  and  half-hearted  in  spite  of  its 
strength.  The  novels  invest  the  English  squire,  the 
vicar,  the  curates,  and  the  lady  of  the  manor  with  a glamor 
of  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land.  The  young 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


5 


American  woman  fixes  her  eyes  on  that  delightful  coun- 
try where  men  can  play  lawn-tennis  all  the  afternoon, 
where  five-o’clock  tea  is  a leisurely  prelude  to  dinner, 
and  where  titles  are  possible.  The  young  American  of 
the  male  sex,  who  gets  his  views  from  newspaper  corres- 
pondence and  such  novels  as  he  reads,  calculates  in 
pounds  and  shillings  and  regrets  that  “ they  cawn’t  make 
good  claret-cup  in  this  country.” 

These  are  only  surface  indications.  They  probably 
show  nothing  servile  or  imitative  at  heart.  But,  as  the 
novels  of  a country  are  as  effective  as  the  ballads  used  to 
be,  it  would  be  well  if  the  American  author  were  saved 
from  extinction  by  the  protection  of  a law  which  would  at 
the  same  time  protect  his  English  brother  from  constant 
robbery. 

Luska:  “Yoke  of  the  Thorah.” 

Two  late  American  novels  are  the  work  of  young  men 
— Sydney  Luska  (Henry  Harland)  and  H.  C.  Bunner. 
Sydney  Luska  made  a success  in  his  novel  of  Hebrew  New 
York  life,  As  It  Was  Written.  He  followed  with  an  in- 
ferior book,  Mrs.  Peixada.  His  third  volume  is  called 
The  Yoke  of  the  Thorah. 

It  is  the  best  of  his  novels.  It  is  intensely  local.  Mr. 
Luska  has  saturated  himself  with  the  life  of  New  York. 
He  loves  its  movement,  he  has  found  its  picturesqueness, 
its  romance,  its  charm.  The  river  at  Blackwell’s  Island 
does  not  remind  him  of  any  foreign  place.  He  is  satisfied 
to  look  from  the  street  on  its  wonderful  beauty  at  sunset 
without  longing  to  be  anywhere  else.  He  has  made  us 
interested  in  the  brown-stone  fronts  of  the  streets  in  the 
Sixties,  and  he  does  not  disdain  to  use  the  University 
Place  cars  as  conveyances  for  the  fortunes  of  his  charac- 
ters. And  all  sane-minded  people,  who  ought  by  this  time 


6 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


to  be  weary  of  the  flood  of  frothy  English  stories,  must  be 
thankful  for  it. 

The  “thorah”  is  the  unwritten  Jewish  law  supplement- 
ing the  Ten  Commandments,  and  Talmudic  rather  than 
Scriptural.  The  man  who  suffers  under  the  yoke  of  this 
law  is  a young  Hebrew  artist,  Elias  Bacharach.  He  has 
fallen  in  love  with  a young  girl,  the  daughter  of  a cus- 
tomer, whose  portrait  he  has  undertaken  to  paint.  He 
lives  with  his  uncle,  a New  York  rabbi,  who  is  anything 
but  a liberal  Jew,  and  his  nephew  has  a wholesome  fear 
of  him.  Elias  feels  that  his  belief — or  rather  his  super- 
stition, for  Mr.  Luska  does  not  dignify  Elias’  scruples  with 
the  name  of  faith — puts  an  impassable  barrier  between 
him  and  the  lady  of  his  thoughts.  It  does  not  strike  any- 
body in  the  book  that  either  Mr.  Redwood  or  his  daugh- 
ter, who  are  Protestants,  will  object  to  a Jew.  Christine 
Redwood,  whose  education  has  been  received  in  the  New 
York  Normal  School,  is  without  prejudices.  Her  father 
amiably  says : 

“ Well,  Mr.  Bacharach,  though  you  are  a Hebrew,  you’re  white  ; 
and  anyhow  religion  don’t  worry  us  much  in  this  household,  and 
never  did.  I’m  a Universalist  myself,  and  Chris — well,  I guess  no 
one  knows  what  she  is.  One  thing’s  certain  ; she  might  have  gone 
further  and  fared  worse — she  might,  for  a fact.  You’re  a perfect 
gentleman,  and  you  can’t  help  it  if  you  were  born  a Jew.” 

Elias’  uncle,  the  rabbi,  takes  a different  view  of  it.  He 
reads  from  a German  manuscript  a portion  of  a sermon 
delivered  on  mixed  marriages  by  Elias  Bacharach’s  great- 
grandfather, expressing  the  sense  of  the  “ thorah  ” : 

“ The  anger  of  the  Most  High  shall  single  him  out.  His  cup 
shall  be  filled  to  the  brim  with  gall  and  wormwood.  The  light  of 
the  sun  shall  be  extinguished  for  him.  A curse  shall  rest  upon  him 
and  upon  all  that  concerns  him.  His  wife  shall  become  a sore  in  his 
flesh.  With  a scolding  tongue  she  shall  beshrew  him.  As  a wanton 
she  shall  shame  him.  His  worldly  affairs  shall  not  prosper.  Mis- 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


7 


fortune  and  calamity  shall  follow  him  wherever  he  goes.  Whatso- 
ever lie  puts  his  hand  to  shall  fail.  An  old  man,  homeless  and 
friendless,  he  shall  beg  his  bread  from  door  to  door.  His  intelli- 
gence shall  decay.  He  shall  be  pointed  out  and  jeered  at  as  a fool 
that  drivels  and  chatters.  His  health  shall  break.  His  bones  shall 
rot  in  his  body.  His  eyes  shall  become  running  ulcers  in  their  sock- 
ets. His  blood  shall  dry  up,  a fiery  poison  in  his  veins.” 

This  denunciation  gives  Elias  the  “ cold  shivers,”  as  he 
expresses  it.  Still,  he  continues  to  resolve  that  he  will 
marry  Christine.  On  the  night  before  the  intended  mar- 
riage he  tells  the  rabbi  that  he  will  marry  a Goy.  Goy, 
by  the  way,  is  the  term  applied  by  the  German  Jews  to  all 
not  of  their  own  race.  In  the  rabbi  Mr.  Luska  means  to 
paint  an  exceptionably  orthodox  Jew.  In  a note  explain- 
ing this  he  says: 

“It  is  a curious  circumstance,  however,  that,  in  the  majority  of 
cases,  those  very  Jews  who  have  cast  quite  loose  from  their  Judaism, 
and  proclaim  themselves  ‘free-thinkers,’  ‘agnostics,’  or  what  not, 
retain  their  prejudice  against  intermarriage,  and  even  their  super- 
stitions anent  its  consequences.” 

The  rabbi  calmly  tells  Elias  that  the  marriage  cannot 
come  off.  He  dogs  his  nephew’s  footsteps  all  the  day  be- 
fore the  evening  of  the  ceremony,  and  he  insists  on  ac- 
companying the  expectant  bridegroom  to  Mr.  Redwood’s 
house.  The  rabbi  is  a terribly  grim  personage,  a mixture 
of  Poe’s  raven  and  a silent  Ancient  Mariner.  He  predicts 
a grievous  calamity,  and  he  is  determined  to  see  it  take 
place.  The  state  of  the  bridegroom’s  mind  may  be  im- 
agined from  this  pleasant  snatch  of  dialogue  as  he  drives 
off  accompanied  by  the  persistent  rabbi : 

‘“At  a church  ? ’ questioned  the  rabbi. 

“ 1 No  ; at  their  house,’  replied  Elias. 

“ * A large  affair  ? Many  guests  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Very  few.  Perhaps  twenty -five  or  thirty.’ 

“ ‘ That’s  good.  It  would  be  a pity  to  have  a crowd.’” 


8 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


No  wonder  Elias  feels  uncomfortable.  The  house  is 
reached.  The,  minister  is  ready.  The  bridal  pair, ’sur- 
rounded by  “ young  girls  in  bright  colors  and  young  men 
in  white  waistcoats  and  swallowtails,”  are  waiting.  Then 
the  triumph  of  the  rabbi  comes.  Elias  is  struck  by  an 
epileptic  fit.  The  rabbi  takes  him  home,  and  when  he 
recovers  he  bears  .the  “yoke  of  the  thorah”  meekly  and 
jilts  Christine  Redwood.  Altogether,  Elias  Bacharach  is 
one  of  the  weakest  and  most  despicable  personages  among 
all  the  weak  and  despicable  heroes  presented  to  us  by  the 
novelists.  He  does  not  seem  to  have  any  convictions, 
except  on  the  subject  of  music.  He  drops  the  heroine 
without  much  remorse,  because  he  is  afraid — so  afraid  that 
his  fear  results  in  a fit — of  the  tribulations  prophesied  by 
the  rabbi.  If  Mr.  Luska  had  represented  him  as  torn  by 
an  agonizing  struggle  between  principle,  or  even  preju- 
dice founded  on  principle,  and  affection  for  a “ Goy,” 
there  would  have  been  some  element  of  nobility  in  Elias 
Bacharach’s  character.  As  he  stands  he  is  a weak-minded 
personage,  capable  of  being  superstitious,  but  incapable 
of  strong  faith.  Having  broken  off  the  match,  the  rabbi 
— for  we  cannot  help  holding  that  determined  Jew  re- 
sponsible for  the  epileptic  fit — proceeds  to  marry  Elias  to 
a more  suitable  partie.  He  is  introduced  to  the  Kochs, 
the  Blums,  and  the  Morgenthaus — Jewish  families  who 
live  uptown  in  New  York.  In  describing  these  families 
— humorously,  but  without  caricature  or  ridicule — Mr. 
Luska  shines.  The  Kochs’  house,  on  Lexington  Avenue 
just  above  Sixty-first  Street,  with  its  gorgeous  drawing- 
room, is  an  absolutely  true  picture.  He  meets  Tillie 
Morgenthau,  who  is  thus  described  by  her  mother: 

“She  works  likes  a horse.  You  never  saw  such  a worker.  It’s 
simply  fearful.  And  such  a good  girl,  Mr.  Bacharach.  Only  nine- 
teen years  old,  and  earns  more  than  a hundred  dollars  a month,  and 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


9 


supports  me  and  herself.  Her  uncle,  my  brother,  over  there — he’s  as 
generous  with  his  money  as  if  it  was  water  ; and  he  gives  Tillie  a 
magnificent  education.  But  she’s  bound  to  be  self-supporting,  and 
hasn’t  cost  him  a cent  for  nearly  a year.  Of  course  he  gives  her 
elegant  presents  every  once  in  a while  ; but  she  pays  our  expenses  by 
her  own  work.  She’s  grand  ! She’s  an  angel ! ” 

44  4 You’re  right  there,”  putin  Mr.  Koch.  4 Tillie’s  all  wool  from 
head  to  foot.’ 

“ 4 And  a yard  vide,’  added  Mr.  Blum.” 

This  charming  young  lady  has  been  set  apart  by  the 
rabbi  for  Elias.  She,  too,  has  been  educated  at  the  Nor- 
mal College — “ class  of  ’82,  salutatory.”  “ I wanted  to  be 
valedictory,”  she  says ; “ I worked  hard  for  it  for  four 
years,  and  when  I didn’t  get  it  you  can’t  imagine  how  hor- 
ribly bad  I felt.” 

The  Kochs  give  a dinner.  The  younger  Koch,  Wash- 
ington I.,  bursts  out  in  a defence  of  the  Americans.  From 
this  Mr.  Blum  dissents: 

4 4 4 If  you  want  to  argue,  you  just  answer  me  this  : If  you  think 
America’s  such  a poor  sort  of  a place,  what  did  you  come  here  for, 
anyway  ? ’ 

44  4 Oh!  I'  came  here  because  I didn’t  have  no  money  ; and  I got 
an  idea  the  streets  here  was  paved  with  gold.’ 

4 4 4 Well,  now  that  you’ve  got  money,  and  now  that  you  know 
the  streets  here  an’t  paved  with  gold,  why  don’t  vou  go  back  ? ’ 

44  Oh  ! dot — dot  is  another  question.’ 

“ 4 Well,  I’ll  tell  you  why  : Because  you  like  it  here.  Because, 
down  deep,  you  think  it’s  the  finest  country  in  the  world.  You  talk 
against  it  for  the  love  of  talking.  If  you  went  to  Europe  you’d  be  as 
homesick  as  anybody.’ 

“ 4 An’t  my  uncle  a splendid  conversationalist?  ’ 

4 4 4 Washington,’  said  his  father-in-law  solemnly,  4 you  got  a head 
on  you  like  Daniel  Webster’s.’ 

4 4 4 O papa  ! ’ cried  Mrs.  Koch,  4 you  make  me  die  with  laifing  !’  ” 

The  conversation  then  takes  a new  turn.  Mr.  Blum 
addresses  his  daughter: 


IO  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

‘ Sarah,  them  pickles  is  simply  grand  ! * 

“ ‘ O papa  ! ’ protested  Mrs.  Koch,  blushing,  ‘ how  can  you  say 
dot,  when  Antoinette  Morgenthau  is  seated  right  next  to  you  ? Her 
pickles  beat  mine  all  hollow.’ 

“‘No,’  cried  Mrs.  Morgenthau  magnanimously,  ‘he's  right; 
you’re  the  boss.’ 

“‘Vail,’  pursued  Mr.  Blum  judicially,  ‘there  is  a defference. 
Antoinette’s  pickles  is  splendid — dot’s  a faict.  May  be  their  flavor  is 
just  as  good  as  yours.  But  yours  is  crisper.  When  I put  one  of 
your  pickles  in  my  mouth,  dot  makes  me  feel  said.  I never  taste  no 
pickles  so  crisp  as  them  since  I was  a little  boy  in  Chairmany  and  ate 
my  mamma’s.  Her  pickles — oh  ! they  was  loafly,  they  was  maiknifi- 
cent ! ’ 

“ ‘ Ach  ! papa,  you  got  so  much  zendiment  !’  his  daughter  ex- 
claimed with  deep  sympathy. 

“ ‘ You  ought  to  taste  my  mamma’s  pickles,’  Tillie  whispered  to 
Elias.  ‘ Of  course  Mr.  Blum  is  prejudiced  in  favor  of  his  daughter’s.’” 

Christine  Redwood’s  talk  had  been  of  Rossetti,  sym- 
phonies ; and  at  almost  their  first  meeting  Elias  had  told 
her  the  story  of  Faust  and  Marguerite — a subject  of  con- 
versation which  might  have  seemed  rather  shocking  to 
old-fashioned  people.  Nevertheless  he  marries  Miss  Til- 
lie  Morgenthau,  who  delights  in  pickles. 

He  repents.  He  leaves  her,  for  no  cause  whatever. 
He  writes  a long  rhapsody  to  the  woman  he  first  deserted, 
and,  on  hearing  of  her  marriage,  dies  in  an  epileptic  fit. 
“ Then  some  children  ventured  out  to  play  in  the  Park. 
Up  to  the  top  of  this  rock  they  clambered.  The  next 
moment,  in  gleeful  excitement,  they  were  calling  to  their 
nurse,  whom  they  had  left  behind  in  the  pathway,  ‘ Come 
and  look  at  the  man  asleep ! ’ ” 

Bunner:  “The  Midge.”  “The  Story  of  a New 
York  House.” 

Mr.  Bunner’s  Story  of  a New  York  House  (New  York: 
Charles  Scribner  & Sons)  is  the  story  of  a number  of  old 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  II 

New  York  houses.  In  Mr.  Bunner’s  hands  it  becomes 
as  beautiful  and  pathetic  as  fine  art  can  make  it.  It,  too, 
reflects  the  glow  of  the  romance  of  human  life  that  has 
been  lived  on  the  ways  of  everyday  life.  If  Mr.  Luska 
and  Mr.  Bunner  continue  to  write,  our  young  readers  of 
English  novels  may  in  time  find  in  New  York  some  ot  the 
interest  of  the  London  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray.  Mr. 
Bunner’s  earlier  story,  The  Midge  (New  York:  Charles 
Scribner  & Sons),  is  a careful  and  refined  study  of  the 
French  quarter,  whose  playground  is  Washington  Square, 
whose  great  restaurant  was  Charlemagne’s,  whose  inhabi- 
tants comprise  all  grades  of  exiled  Frenchmen,  from  the 
impoverished  vicomte,  exiled  for  cause,  to  the  honest  Nor- 
man working  to  buy  a small  spot  in  his  native  land.  Mr. 
Bunner  knows  this  delightful  quartier  well,  and  he  gives 
us  his  knowledge  of  it  in  the  form  of  a little  novel,  the 
heroine  of  which  is  an  orphan  left  suddenly  in  the  hands 
of  a lonely,  kind-hearted,  delicate-minded,  and  manly  old 
bachelor.  Dr.  Peters  is  of  the  Colonel  Newcome  type. 
Nothing  could  be  truer  to  his  generous  nature  than  his 
attempt  to  find  a religion  for  the  orphan  girl  cast  on  his 
protection.  The  mother  was  a Pole — “ a Catholic  who 
never  went  to  confession.”  Dr.  Peters  is  obliged  to  fulfil 
the  duty  of  looking  after  the  funeral  of  this  dead  woman, 
who  had  refused  a priest.  He  goes  to  the  Rev.  Theo- 
dore Beatty  Pratt,  in  charge  of  the  mission-chapel  of  the 
church  of  St.  Gregorius : 

“ He  did  not  feel  quite  easy  in  his  mind  about  getting  Tratt  to 
perform  the  funeral  service,  although  it  seemed  to  be,  on  the  whole, 
the  best  thing  to  do.  He  had  a tender  conscience,  and  it  hurt  him 
to  think  that  perhaps,  in  spite  of  her  petulant  cynicism,  the  dead 
woman  had  been  a Catholic  at  heart,  and  that  she  might  have 
resented  the  idea  of  being  laid  to  rest  with  alien  rites.  But  then  he 
did  not  wish  to  go  to  Father  Dube.  Dube  was  worth  a dozen  of 
Pratt  ; but  Dube  had  his  peculiarities.  He  was  a hard-headed,  con- 


12 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


scientious  priest,  much  wearied  in  spirit  and  in  his  two  hundred 
pounds  of  flesh  by  the  endless  needs  of  his  ever-straggling  flock,  and 
he  drew  the  line  of  indulgence  at  impenitent  death.  It  was  enough, 
he  thought,  for  people  to  neglect  religion  and  morality  and  soap  and 
water  all  their  lives  ; when  they  came  to  die  the  least  they  could  do 
was  to  die  in  the  church,  and  give  their  poor  old  pastor  a chance  to  do 
something  for  their  immortal  souls  at  the  one  time  when  they  couldn’t 
possibly  undo  it  themselves.  This  was  Father  Dube’s  idea,  although 
he  never  formulated  it  exactly  in  that  way.  And  so  Dr.  Peters  felt,  a 
little  delicacy  about  calling  upon  him  to  say  Mass  for  the  stranger 
who  had  gone  out  of  the  world  in  a distinctly  irreligious  frame  of 
mind.  And  (the  doctor  thought)  Pratt  would  do  just  as  well.  It 
would  never  occur  to  Pratt  to  inquire  whether  or  no  the  departed 
sister  over  whom  he  was  to  read  the  burial  service  had  really  been 
a good  Church  of  England  woman.  He  lived  in  a state  of  mild  sur- 
prise at  the  fact  that  there  actually  were  people  in  this  world  who  did 
not  belong  to  the  Church  of  England.” 

The  state  of  mind  of  the  average  tolerant  American  is 
well  expressed  in  the  succeeding  paragraph.  It  is  a state 
of  mind  which  is  most  difficult  to  change ; it  is  more  sta- 
ble than  the  condition  of  bigotry : 

“Dr.  Peters’  religious  views  had  the  haziness  of  extreme  catho- 
licity. In  his  childhood,  when  his  parents  were  pillars  of  the  Epis- 
copal Church  in  their  little  village  in  Oneida  County,  he  had  been 
brought  up  to  lock  upon  a Romanist  as  something  nearly  as  bad  as  a 
Jew,  in  a different  way,  and  not  very  far  removed  in  guilt  from  the 
heathen.  Later  life  and  much  experience  of  sore-tried  humanity  had 
taught  him  a lesson  of  wider  charity.  He  had  grown  to  think  better 
of  all  creeds  and  less  of  any  particular  one.  Now  he  was  Father 
Dube’s  friend,  and  the  friend  of  the  Rev.  Theodore  Beatty  Pratt, 
and  the  friend  of  Brother  Strong,  of  the  Bethel  ; and  he  liked  the 
Roman  Catholic  priest  best  of  the  three.” 

Midge,  his  ward,  finds  his  religious  experiments  unsatis- 
factory. She  thinks  that  it  is  just  as  easy  to  read  Scrip- 
tural texts  at  home.  The  doctor  appeals  to  Father  Dube 
to  “ make  her  a Catholic.”  The  priest  answers  that  “ it 
is  God  who  makes  Catholics;  it  is  not  Dr.  Peters  or 
Father  Dube.” 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  13 

The  story  ends  with  a marriage.  Midge  is  only  slightly 
sketched,  but  the  doctor  and  the  priest  are  strongly  drawn 
and  the  local  color  is  true  and  fresh.  Mr.  Bunner’s  good 
taste  pervades  the  story.  The  sentiment  is  not  exag- 
gerated, and  the  pathos  of  Midge’s  position  is  not  over- 
drawn. 

II. 

Haggard : “ King  Solomon’s  Mines,”  “ Dawn.” 

Mr.  H.  Rider  Haggard  is  at  present  enjoying  great 
popularity.  King  Solomon's  Mines  and  She  were  lurid 
phantasmagoria,  strong  in  the  elements  of  surprise  and 
wonder.  They  had  new  flavor,  which  the  novel-reading 
public  is  always  demanding.  She , in  spite  of  the  critics, 
had  no  resemblance  to  Moore’s  fine  Epicurean , which,  with 
Gerald  Griffin’s  Invasion , is  too  much  neglected.  Jess  was 
an  unpleasant  story  of  what  is  called  “ contemporaneous 
human  interest,”  redeemed  by  some  interesting  sketches 
of  life  among  the  Boers.  The  Witch's  Head , lately  issued, 
is  an  earlier  work  of  rudimentary  merit.  .Dawn  is  also  an 
early  book,  but  the  latest  published  by  Harper  & Bros. 

Dawn  has  all  the  worst  qualities  of  a novel — bad  in 
every  sense.  It  is  written  in  vulgar  English.  It  is  too 
long.  It  is  immoral  in  its  suggestions;  and  Mr.  Haggard 
lacks  even  the  art  of  making  immorality  enticing.  This 
last  is  the  only  virtue — one  of  necessity — that  saves  Daw?i 
from  being  dangerous. 

Tolstoi:  “Katia.” 

Two  very  popular  translations  are  Tolstoi’s  Katia 
(New  York:  Wm.  S.  Gottsberger)  and  Jon  Thordsson’s 
Sigfrid \ an  Icelandic  love-story. 

It  seems  strange  to  most  of  us,  who  have  an  impression 


i4 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


that  Russia  is  bleak  and  chill,  to  notice  that  Katia  revels 
in  lilac-blooms  and  all  the  concomitants  of  spring  and 
summer,  and  that  she  is  struck  by  the  coldness  of  the  land- 
scapes at  Baden-Baden  as  compared  with  the  more  luxu- 
riant scenery  of  her  own  country  in  summer.  Katia  is  a 
young  orphan  married  to  her  guardian.  There  are  mis- 
understandings that  come  from  her  inexperience  and  his 
peculiar  scheme  of  letting  her  have  her  own  way  and  then 
suffering  for  it.  There  are  fine  analyses  of  character  and 
motive  in  Katia , and  the  story  is  almost  idyllic  in  its  purity 
and  simplicity.  There  is  only  one  passage  to  be  regretted, 
and  that  is  the  description  of  the  declaration  of  passion 
made  by  the  marquis.  Tolstoi’s  painting  of  Russian  man- 
ners and  customs  is  always  perfectly  done.  Katia  thus 
describes  a religious  retreat  during  the  octave  of  the  Feast 
of  the  Assumption : 

“ When  the  horses  were  ready  I entered  the  droschky,  accom- 
panied by  Macha  or  a maid,  and  drove  about  three  versts  to  church. 
In  entering  the  church  I never  failed  to  remember  that  we  pray  there 
for  all  those  * who  enter  this  place  in  the  fear  of  God,’  and  I strove  to 
rise  to  the  level  of  this  thought,  above  all  when  my  feet  first  touched 
the  two  grass-grown  steps  of  the  porch.  At  this  hour  there  were  not 
usually  in  the  church  more  than  ten  or  a dozen  persons,  peasants  and 
drorovies,  preparing  to  make  their  devotions  ; I returned  their  salu- 
tations with  marked  humility,  and  went  myself  (which  I regarded  as 
an  act  of  superior  merit)  to  the  drawer  where  the  wax  tapers  were 
kept,  received  a few  from  the  hand  of  the  old  soldier  who  performed 
the  office  of  starost,  and  placed  them  before  the  images.  Through 
the  door  of  the  sanctuary  I could  see  the  altar-cloth  mamma  had  em- 
broidered, and  above  the  iconstase  two  angels  spangled  with  stars, 
which  I had  considered  magnificent  when  I was  a little  girl,  and  a 
dove  surrounded  by  a gilded  aureole  which,  at  that  same  period,  often 
used  to  absorb  my  attention." 

When  the  service  was  over  the  priest  humbly  asked 
the  young  heiress  whether  he  should  go  to  her  house  to 
celebrate  Vespers.  To  which,  in  order  to  mortify  her 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  15 

pride,  she  condescended  to  say  no.  In  all  these  pictures 
of  Russian  life  the  abject  servility  of  the  Russian  priests 
to  rank  and  wealth  is  a remarkable  feature. 

Thorodsson:  “Sigfrid.” 

Jon  Thordsson  Thoroddsson  is  an  Icelandic  poet,  and, 
the  translator  of  Sigfrid  (New  York:  T.  Y.  Crowell  & 
Co.)  informs  us,  next  to  Bjarne  Thorarensson  and  Jonas 
Hallgrimsson,  the  most  favored  and  extensively  read. 
Sigfrid  is  a prose  idyl.  It  bears  the  stamp  of  truth.  It 
realizes  for  us  life  in  eastern  Iceland.  The  ways  of  the 
farmers,  of  the  townspeople,  whose  barons  and  high  nobil- 
ity are  men  in  small  wholesale  businesses,  the  manners  of 
students,  are  presented  to  us.  We  are  struck  with  the 
low  level  of  civilization  and  the  unconcern  with  which 
feminine  lapses  from  purity  are  regarded.  The  results  of 
Lutheranism  in  Sweden,  Norway,  and  Iceland  seem  to 
have  stifled  whatever  aspirations  the  people  had. 

Mrs.  Molesworth:  “ Marriage.” 

Mrs.  Molesworth  is  one  of  the  few  English  “lady  novel- 
ists ” who  would  be  greatly  missed.  She  is  safe ; she  writes 
good  English;  she  has  lived  among  decent  people  with 
so  much  comfort  that  she  does  not  find  it  necessary  to 
run  after  indecent  ones.  Her  Marriage  and  Giving  in 
Marriage  (New  York:  Harper  & Bros.)  is  a pleasant 
story  of  the  life  of  an  English  girl  in  France.  It  is  an 
apology  for  the  French  manner  of  protecting  a young  girl 
from  the  natural  sentimentalism  of  youth. 

Aveline,  the  English  girl,  is  permitted  to  see  Mr.  Here- 
ward  so  often  that  he  and  she  become  interested  in  each 
other.  At  this  point  her  mother,  who  abhors  French  re- 
strictions and  ideas  about  marriage,  interferes  and  insists 
on  her  marrying  a rich  and  dissipated  young  Englishman. 


i6 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


Aveline,  who  wants  to  be  obedient,  finds  her  affections 
already  engaged,  when  marriage  seems  impossible.  As  a 
rule,  English  writers  insist  that  the  French  system  of  mar- 
riages of  reason  is  a cruel  one.  But,  as  Mrs.  Molesworth 
shows,  how  can  it  be  as  cruel  as  the  English  and  Ameri- 
can systems,  which  leave  young  people  together  without 
warning  or  chaperon  until  sentiment  and  inexperience 
form  a compound  called  love,  often  followed  by  a “ mar- 
riage of  unreason?”  Aveline  talks  to  Mademoiselle  de 
Villers,  who  explains  the  French  system: 

“‘I  want  to  tell  you  myself — grandmamma  said  I might, 
Mademoiselle  de  Villers  began.  ‘I  dare  say  you  can  guess  what  it  is, 
dear  Aveline.’ 

“ ‘You  are  going  to  be  married,’  Aveline  exclaimed. 

“ ‘Yes — at  least  that  will  come  in  due  time.  In  the  first  place 
there  will  be,  of  course,  les  fian^ailles , but  I wanted  you  to  know  be- 
fore it  is  formally  announced.  I count  you  quite  like  one  of  my  best 
friends,  though  I have  not  known  you  long.  And  Monsieur  de  Bois- 
Hubert — he  likes  and  admires  you  so  much.  I hope  we  shall  always 
be  friends,  dear  Aveline.’ 

“ ‘And  you,’  said  Aveline,  returning  her  little  caress,  for  they 
were  in  a corner  where  they  could  not  be  seen,  ‘ you  are  very  happy 
— quite  happy,  dear  Modeste,  I hope?’ 

“ ‘ Quite  happy.  Maurice  is  all  I wanted.  He  is  so  good  and 
kind,  and  clever  too.  And  I know  he  truly  cares  for  me.  I can  feel 
it  somehow — he  is  so  different  from  some  others  I have  known.  No, 
I have  no  misgiving  ; I feel  sure  I have  done  right.’ 

“‘But,’  said  Aveline  in  surprise,  ‘I  did  not  know  it  was  like 
that  here — in  France.  I thought  your  parents  simply  told  you  whom 
you  were  to  marry,  and  that  you  had  to  obey  them.’ 

“ ‘ My  parents  gave  their  consent  first , of  course,’  said  Modeste. 

‘ They  have  said  on  several  occasions  that  this  or  that  gentleman 
would  not  be  disapproved  of  by  them  if  I liked  him.  But  then  they 
left  me  free  to  decide.  I should  never  have  wished  to  marry  any  one 
they  disapproved  of,  I hope.  Indeed,  I scarcely  could  have  done  so.  I 
know  that  no  gentlemen  they  do  not  think  well  of  are  allowed  to  become 
intimate  with . us* , That. is  only  a matter*  of  course.' 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


17 


“ 4 1 understand/  said  Aveline  quietly.  4 1 think  in  some  ways 
French  girls  are  to  be  envied,  Modeste — and  in  your  case  especially.’  ” 

Mrs.  Molesworth  does  not  admit  that  young  people 
should  be  allowed  to  marry  without  consideration  of  their 
temporal  prospects.  In  the  end  Aveline  marries  Mr. 
Hereward,  but  not  until  he  has  done  away  with  the  chief 
obstacle  to  matrimony  in  his  case,  and  fallen  heir  to  a 
fortune.  Mrs.  Molesworth’s  philosophy  is  one  not  gener- 
ally taught  in  novels.  She  teaches  that  the  material  con- 
ditions of  marriage  cannot  safely  be  overlooked,  and  that 
the  thoughtlessness  and  carelessness  of  parents  are  the 
causes  of  the  great  number  of  unhappy  marriages.  French 
parents  present  no  young  man  to  their  daughters  who  is 
not  suitable  in  every  way.  The  French  home  is  most 
exclusive,  most  impenetrable.  No  stranger  not  respon- 
sibly introduced  is  admitted.  The  chaperon  is  an  institu- 
tion ; and  the  results  show  that  a community  of  interests 
is  as  binding  as  a community  of  sentiment.  Duty,  after 
all,  becomes  a habit  more  likely  to  last  than  the  first  glow 
of  inclination,  when  “in  the  spring  a young  man’s  fancy 
lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love.” 

Marriage  and  Giving  in  Marriage  might  profitably  be 
considered  and  discussed  by  American  fathers  and 
mothers. 

Habberton:  “ Country  Luck.” 

Mr.  John  Habberton  made  one  of  those  successes  in 
the  art  of  fiction  which  occur  only  in  the  summer-time. 
The  careful  observer  will  note  that  there  is  a summer 
novel  and  a winter  novel,  and  that  the  summer  novel  is 
epidemic.  Helen's  Babies  was  Mr.  Habberton’s  great  hit, 
and  for  one  summer  and  some  time  afterwards  it  pervaded 
the  social  atmosphere.  Mr.  Habberton  has  written  other 
novels  since.  His  latest  is  Country  Luck  ( Philadelphia : 


1 8 MODERN  NO  FEES  AND  NOVELISTS. 

J.  B.  Lippincott  & Co.)  In  reading  Country  Luck  one  is 
irresistibly  reminded  of  Mr.  Howells — much  to  the  advan- 
tage of  the  latter.  Mr.  Habberton1  s work  helps  to  teach 
us  how  much  better  Mr.  Howells  is  than  the  theories  he 
preaches.  Mr.  Habberton  is  the  realist  whom  Mr.  How- 
ells holds  up  as  the  coming  man.  None  of  us  can  under- 
stand how  idealistic  Mr.  Howells  is  until  we  read  Country 
Luck.  By  comparison  with  Phil,  Mr.  Habberton1  s coun- 
try boy,  Lemuel  Barker,  Mr.  Howells’  country  hero,  is  a 
romantic  creature,  surrounded  by  the  idealistic  glamour 
which  Mr.  Hpwells  pretends  to  hate. 

Mr.  Habberton’s  characters  are  irredeemably  “ com- 
mon,” and  he  does  nothing  to  lift  them  out  of  their  “com- 
monness.” The  principals  become  rich  and  wear  fine 
clothes,  but  they  do  not  change.  Lucia,  for  instance,  is 
intended  to  be  what  some  of  the  ladies  call  “ ’cute.”  She 
is  sketched  in  the  beginning,  when  she  became  a country 
boarder  in  the  house  of  the  Hayns: 

‘ ‘ The  one  irreconcilable  member  of  the  family  was  the  elder 
daughter,  Lucia.  She  was  the  oldest  child,  so  she  had  her  own  way  ; 
she  was  pretty,  so  she  had  always  been  petted  ; she  was  twenty,  so 
she  knew  everything  that  she  thought  worth  knowing.  She  had  long 
before  reconstructed  the  world  (in  her  own  mind),  just  as  it  should  be, 
from  the  standpoint  that  it  ought  to  exist  solely  for  her  benefit.  Not 
bad-tempered,  on  the  contrary  cheerful  and  full  of  high  spirits,  she 
was  nevertheless  in  perpetual  protest  against  everything  that  was  not 
exactly  as  she  would  have  it,  and  not  all  the  manners  that  careful 
breeding  could  impart  could  restrain  the  unconscious  insolence 
peculiar  to  young  and  self-satisfied  natures.  She  would  laugh  loudly 
at  table  at  Mrs.  Hayn’s  way  of  serving  an  omelet ; tell  Mrs.  Hayn’s 
husband  that  his  Sunday  coat  looked  ‘ so  funny  * ; express  her  mind 
freely,  before  the  whole  household,  at  the  horrid  way  in  which  the 
half-^rown  Hayn  boys  wore  their  hair,  and  do  other  charming  things 
characteristic  of  ‘careful  breeding’  in  the  Tramley  family." 

Lucia  is  an  uneducated  and  superficial  girl,  who  does 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS, . 19 

not  even  try  to  speak  good  English,  even  if  she  knows 
how.  She  behaves  in  a snobbish  and  weak-minded  man- 
ner when  the  friend  whom  she  respects  in  the  country 
comes  to  the  city  in  rustic  clothes.  She  may  be  a “ type  ” 
of  a certain  class,  but  she  resembles  in  no  way  the  Ameri- 
can gentlewoman,  who  is  not  so  uncommon  as  the  novel- 
ists would  have  us  believe.  Mr.  Habberton’s  style  is  as 
careless  as  that  of  his  heroine.  But  he  makes  some 
amends  for  this  by  his  tenderness  and  sympathy  in  treat- 
ing the  old  farmer  and  his  wife.  The  glimpses  of  “ soci- 
ety ” he  gives  us  show  us  a group  of  vulgar  people,  who 
rely  principally  on  their  evening  suits  and  dresses  for 
their  status.  In  the  country  the  vulgarity  vanishes,  and, 
though  the  people  are  hard  in  outline  and  the  author’s 
description  lacks  idealism,  they  are  interesting  and  true 
to  nature.  Phil  and  Lucia  marry  in  the  end,  of  course, 
after  a series  of  mild  episodes  in  which  Phil  is  broadly 
grinned  at  by  “luck.”  Fate  is  supposed  to  smile,  but 
“luck,”  in  the  story-books,  always  grins.  Mr.  Tramley, 
who  is  an  honest  man,  makes  this  true  remark  about  the 
neglect  of  American  historic  localities  by  Americans: 

‘ A few  years  ago  you  and  I spent  nearly  a thousand  dollars  in 
visiting  some  European  battle-fields.  To-day  that  old  fellow  has 
carefully  done  the  Revolutionary  battle-fields  of  New  York  and 
Brooklyn  at  a total  expense  of  a quarter  of  a dollar  ; even  then  he  had 
a penny  left  to  give  a beggar.” 

Greene:  “The  Blind  Brother.” 

Mr.  Homer  Greene’s  stories  of  the  Pennsylvania  coal- 
mines have  what  the  sated  literary  aesthete  calls  “ a new 
flavor.”  In  The  Blind  Brother  (New  York : Thomas  Y. 
Crowell  & Co.)  Mr.  Greene  sets  before  his  readers  a high 
aim.  He  does  not  overdo  the  pathetic;  he  tells  straight- 
forwardly, in  The  Blind  Brother , the  story  of  brotherly 


20 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS, 


love  and  simple  devotion  to  truth  and  honor  under  the 
heavy  strain  of  a temptation  which  comes  from  that  in- 
tense brotherly  love.  An  example  of  Mr.  Greene’s  good 
taste  and  avoidance  of  the  death-of-little-Nell  business  is 
the  passage  in  which  he  describes  the  feelings  of  the 
mother  of  the  two  boys  when  it  is  made  plain  to  her  that 
they  are  buried  in  the  mine : 

4 It  had  been  thought  a kindness  to  tell  her  so  at  last,  and  she 
had  thanked  them  for  not  keeping  the  bitter  truth  from  her.  She  did 
not  ask  any  more  that  she  might  see  her  two  boys  in  life  ; she  only 
prayed  now  that  their  dead  bodies  might  be  brought  to  her  unman- 
gled, to  be  robed  for  Christian  burial.  To  this  end  she  began  now 
to  make  all  things  ready.  She  put  in  order  the  little  best’ room  ; she 
laid  out  the  clean,  new  clothing  and  spotless  sheets  ; she  even 
took  from  her  worn  purse  the  four  small  coins  to  place  upon  the 
white,  closed  lids.  In  the  locked  cupboard,  where  the  boys  should 
not  see  them  until  the  time  came,  she  found  the  Christmas  presents 
she  had  thought  to  give  them  that  day.  Not  much,  indeed.  A few 
cheap  toys,  some  sweetmeats  purchased  secretly,  a book  or  two,  and, 
last  of  all,  some  little  gifts  that  her  own  weary,  loving  hands  had 
wrought  in  the  long  hours  after  the  children  were  asleep.  And  now 
the  Christmas  dawn  had  come  ; but  the  children — ” 

The  children  are  rescued  by  no  unnatural  event — for 
Mr.  Greene  is  always  true  to  the  life  of  the  mines — but 
through  the  efforts  which  miners,  straining  every  energy, 
make  for  their  brethren  whenever  an  accident  occurs.  It 
is  a pure,  natural,  and  interesting  book. 

Ames:  “ Wishes  on  Wings.” 

Marion  Howard  was  a delightful  story.  Another,  after 
a long  interval,  by  the  same  author,  F.  S.  D.  Ames,  ought 
to  be  eagerly  welcomed.  Wishes  on  Wings  (New  York: 
Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.)  is  made  up  of  certain 
episodes  in  the  life  of  a selfish  and  inconsiderate  girl,  who, 
however,  is  capable  of  some  good..  The  life  of  the  Grain- 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


21 


gers,  a poor  and  refined  English  family,  is  described  with 
a touch  worthy  of  Mrs.  Oliphant.  We  think,  however, 
that  the  author  has  made  a mistake  in  introducing  the 
fairy  element.  Milly  could  have  made  her  voyage  to  In- 
dia and  been  taught  her  lesson  without  the  entrance  of  a 
fairy  on  the  scene.  It  is  bad  art  to  mix  a fairy  story  with 
a novellette  of  real  life,  and,  although  the  moral  is  well 
pointed,  it  loses  some  of  its  effect  by  the  incongruous  in- 
troduction of  the  preternatural.  Another  story  in  the  same 
volume  is  “ Inside  the  Gate ; or,  The  Hundredth  Sheep.” 
It  is  more  serious  in  manner  and  matter  than  “ Wishes  on 
Wings.”  The  hero  is  a priest  who  gives  up  his  life  for 
the  hundredth  sheep.  He  and  his  friend,  a young  semi- 
narian, talk  well.  This  is  a suggestive  snatch  of  conver- 
sation, caught  just  as  they  have  passed  out  of  a “ severely 
classical  chapel  ” of  the  Sacred  Heart.  Wilfred  admits 
that  men  may  pray  in  a “ miniature  heathen  temple,”  but 
waxes  indignant  over  the  bad  taste  that  permits  it  to  be 
built. 

“ 4 Then,  I suppose,  Trevor,’  he  says,  1 you  try  to  feel  no  more 
admiration  for  Westminster  Abbey  and  the  other  grand  cathedrals  that 
used  to  be  old  England’s  pride  and  glory  than  for  such  a temple  as 
the  one  we  have  just  left.1  11 

“ ‘ I do  not  say  this,  and  I am  sure  you  know  me  well  enough 
to  know  that  I do  not  mean  to  imply  it.  Personally,  I,  you  know, 
love  pillar,  arch,  and  deep  religious  gloom.  I have  no  sympathy 
with  classical  architecture  Christianized.  But  I am  only  a unit,  my 
dear  fellow,  and  you  are  only  another,  and  we  have  a host  of  brother- 
units,  just  as  ready  to  assert  themselves,  and  just  as  likely  to  be  right. 
I have  often  thought  of  this  before,  and,  do  you  know,  Wilfred,  it 
has  often  struck  me  that  there  is  a beautiful  answer  to  it  all  in  the 
magnificent  cry  with  which  David  ends,  or  rather  culminates,  his 
psalms,  “ Omnis  spititus  landet  DominumE  Yes,  every  spirit, 
whether  of  height  or  breadth,  light  or  shade,  melody  or  harmony — 
not  to  contradict  or  foil  each  other,  since  it  was  God  who,  through 
the  instrumentality  of  man,  called  each  and  all  into  being,  but  as  so' 


22 


MODERN  NOVELS  A AW  NOVELISTS . 


many  different  means  of  praise  and  honor  blended  into  one  harmon- 
ious whole  to  the  glory  of  his  name.’' 

Though  not  powerful  or  remarkable  for  anything  except 
honesty  of  purpose  and  an  easy  style,  F.  S.  D.  Ames’ 
stories  are  so  good  that  the  Catholic  public  ought  to  en- 
courage him,  or  her,  to  write  more  of  them. 

III. 

O’Meara:  “Narka.” 

In  Narka,  by  Kathleen  O’Meara  (New  York:  Harper 
& Bros.),  we  are  presented  to  several  Nihilists,  including 
the  heroine,  who  does  not  deserve  the  name.  The  hero, 
Basil,  declares  that  he  is  in  love  with  Narka,  protests  to 
Sceur  Marguerite — and  this  would  be  an  exceedingly  im- 
proper proceeding,  if  Sceur  Marguerite  were  not  so  emi- 
nently pious  and  sensible — that  he  loves  her  to  distraction, 
and  then  coolly  marries  a Russian  princess.  As  Miss 
O’Meara  hints  that  this  princess  has  not  the  most  amiable 
temper  in  the  world,  we  take  leave  of  Basil  with  a sense 
of  satisfaction.  It  is  not  often  that  the  inconstant  hero 
is  served  by  the  novelist  with  even  a hint  of  poetic  jus- 
tice. The  awful  contrast  between  the  lives  of  the  rich 
and  the  poor  occupy  the  author  of  Narka  as  well  as  the 
author  of  The  New  Antigone.  Both  propose  the  same  an- 
swer to  the  outcries  and  discontent  of  the  poor  and  to  the 
callousness  and  selfishness  of  the  rich.  It  is  the  answer 
of  Christianity — love  and  self-sacrifice.  But  Miss  O’Meara 
puts  her  answer  more  satisfactorily.  Soeur  Marguerite, 
formerly  Mademoiselle  de  Beaucrillon,  is  a type  of  hun- 
dreds of  women  who  enter  the  religious  life,  thrusting 
aside  luxuries  and  all  those  amusements,  pleasures,  and 
occupations  which  the  highest  civilization  offers,  to  live 
with  the  poor,  to  suffer  with  them,  and  to  love  them  in 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


23 


imitation  of  their  divine  Saviour.  Miss  O’Meara  is  one 
of  the  few  modern  authors  of  talent  and  taste  who  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  the  word  vocation.  She  unfolds  the 
character  of  Sceur  Marguerite  with  such  skill  that  we  en- 
joy it  as  if  we  were  present  at  the  gradual  opening  of  some 
lovely  blossom.  Narka  is  a noble  personage — badly  re- 
warded at  the  end,  however,  by  being  made  to  be  a gjeat ' 
prima  donna;  Madame  de  Beaucrillon  is  a careful  sketch 
of  the  Russian  aristocrat  who  would  sacrifice  her  friend 
to  save  her  brother  from  a mesalliance;  Father  Christo- 
pher and  Ivan  Gorff  are  admirably  done,  but  Sceur  Mar- 
guerite dwarfs  them  all.  She  is  a new  personage  in  fic- 
tion. She  is  described,  too,  without  cant.  She  is  not 
once  called  “ the  good  sister  ” or  “ the  pious  woman  ” — 
phrases  good  in  themselves,  but  sometimes  having  an  un- 
pleasant air  of  mechanism  about  them.  She  has  con- 
quered the  secret  of  living.  For  her,  death  has  veritably 
no  sting.  She  has  left  the  world,  not  to  cease  from  lov- 
ing, but  to  love  more. 

“ ‘What  a tiring  life  you  lead,  Marguerite!  Do  you  never 
weary  of  it  ? ’ 

44  ‘ Never  for  a minute  ! * the  Sister  of  Charity  answers.  ‘ That 
is  the  happiness  in  God’s  service  : it  may  tire  one’s  body,  but  it  keeps 
one’s  heart  merry.” 

“ ‘ I wish  I could  think  the  poor  were  grateful  to  you,’  says 
Narka.” 

“ ‘Who  says  they  are  not  grateful?’  demands  Marguerite. 
Narka  answers  : ‘ It  seems  to  me  everybody  says  it  ; it  is  the  constant 
complaint  of  all  the  good  people  who  do  for  the  poor  that  they  get  no 
return.’  ‘ What  nonsense  ! ’ cries  Marguerite:  ‘ I wonder  what  sort 

of  return  they  would  expect  ? If  they  gave  love,  the  poor  would  give 
them  love  ; but  they  only  give  alms,  and  I don’t  suppose  they  expect  the 
poor  to  give  them  back  alms.  It  is  so  silly  of  people  to  be  always 
looking  for  gratitude,  and  then  to  go  about  complaining  that  they  don’t 
get  it ; the  disappointment  sours  themselves,  and  the  complaining 
sours  other  people,  for  nine  people  out  of  ten  are  ungrateful,  and  the 
complaining  hits  home  and  hurts  their  self-love.  ’ ” 


24 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


If  Miss  O’Meara  had  deliberately  set  out  to  show  non- 
Catholics — who  have  not  yet  entirely  gotten  rid  of  the 
idea  that  every  religious  leaves  the  world  because  of  un- 
requited love — that  a true  vocation  is  the  happiest,  most 
blessed,  most  cheerful  thing  in  life,  she  could , not  have 
done  it  more  skillfully  than  by  describing  Sceur  Marguerite 
as  «he  has  done.  Who  can  help  loving  this  loving  sister, 
who  has  the  cunning  of  the  serpent  where  the  good  of 
souls  is  involved,  and  the  innocence  of  the  dove?  Soeur 
Marguerite’s  charity  is  a very  large  mantle.  She  says 
that  when  the  Pharisees  are  stripped  of  their  shams  even 
the  “ poor  devils  ” will  laugh.  “ The  poor  devils?  ” some 
one  retorts.  “ Well,  if  you  are  going  to  stand  up  for  the 
devils ! ” “ It  would  be  a good  thing  if  we  had  their  zeal 

and  perseverance,”  answers  Marguerite. 

Narka,  who  has  a magnificent  voice  and  who  is  poor, 
receives  an  offer  from  an  operatic  manager.  He  thinks 
he  has  secured  a great  vocalist.  Narka  goes  to  Marguerite 
for  advice.  She  expects  the  little  sister  to  be  horrified, 
but  she  is  not. 

“ ‘ I expected  you  would  have  shrieked  at  the  bare  notion  of  my 
risking  my  soul  in  such  a wicked  place  as  the  theatre.’  4 Is  it  such  a 
wicked  place  ? ’ Marguerite  asks.  * I don’t  know.  A school  friend  of 
mine,  a very  pious  girl,  lost  her  fortune  and  went  on  the  stage  and 
sang  for  a year  at  the  Opera  Comique , and  she  remained  as  pious  as 
ever,  and  died  like  a little  saint.  But  that  was  in  Paris  ; perhaps  at 
Naples  it  is  worse.” 

Marguerite’s  love  for  the  terrible  people  of  the  quartier 
knows  no  bounds.  They  love  her  and  her  community  in 
return.  She  has  more  than  the  heroism  of  a Romola  and 
all  the  womanliness  and  wit  of  a Catherine  Seton.  Miss 
O’Meara  has  added  a new  character  to  the  gallery  of  fic- 
tion. The  Old  House  in  Picardy  (London:  Bentley  & Son) 
is  a pleasant  novel  of  French  life,  also  by  Miss  O’Meara. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


25 


IV. 

# 

Crawford:  “Marzio’s  Crucifix.” 

Mr.  Marion  Crawford’s  Marzio"  s Crucifix  (New  York: 
Macmillan  & Co.)  is  a little  masterpiece.  Marzio,  the 
carver  of  wonderfully  beautiful  things,  is  a desperate  vil- 
lain— one  of  those  villains  so  extremely  bad  that  it  is  pos- 
sible for  a good  Christian  to  hate  him  with  a clear  con- 
science. This  is  a luxury  which  one  cannot  always  in- 
dulge in,  for  the  modern  romancer’s  villain,  like  his  hero, 
is  generally  the  victim  of  circumstances.  Marzio  is  an 
Italian  anarchist  of  the  worst  type.  Mr.  Crawford  tells 
us  truly  that  genius,  to  produce  great  works  of  art,  must 
be  religious,  and  that  the  marvels  of  silver-work  seen  in 
certain  churches  of  the  Old  World  could  not  have  been 
produced  by  any  goldsmith  who  made  jewelry  for  a living. 
Then  he  sketches  a kind  of  God-hater  whom  Americans 
— thank  Heaven! — may  yet  look  for  in  vain  among  them- 
selves, but  who  is  not  unknown  in  Continental  countries, 
where  the  sight  of  a priest  is  to  him  like  water  to  a mad 
dog: 

“ Marzio  Pandolfi  knew  all  this  better  than  any  one  ” — knew  that 
true  art  is  religious — “and  he  could  no  more  have  separated  him- 
self from  his  passion  for  making  chalices  and  crucifixes  than  he  could 
have  changed  the  height  of  his  stature  or  the  color  of  his  eyes.  But 
at  the  same  time  he  hated  the  church,  the  priests,  and  every  one  who 
was  to  use  the  beautiful  things  over  which  he  spent  so  much  time  and 
labor.  Had  he  been  indifferent,  a careless,  good-natured  sceptic,  he 
would  have  been  a bad  artist.  As  it  was,  the  very  violence  of  his 
hatred  lent  spirit  and  vigor  to  his  eye  and  hand.  He  was  willing  to 
work  upon  the  figure,  perfecting  every  detail  of  expression,  until  he 
fancied  he  could  feel  and  see  the  silver  limbs  of  the  dead  Christ  suffer- 
ing upon  the  cross  under  the  diabolical  skill  of  his  long  fingers.  The 
monstrous  horror  of  the  thought  made  him  work  marvels,  and  the 
fancied  realization  of  an  idea  that  would  startle  even  a hardened  un- 
believer lent  a feverish  impulse  to  this  strange  man’s  genius.” 


26 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


Marzio  hates  his  brother,  the  priest.,  Don  Paolo,  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  he  is  good  and  a priest.  He 
breaks  off  the  proposed  marriage  between  his  pupil,  Giam- 
battista, and  his  daughter,  simply  because  he  thinks  that 
Gianbattista,  under  Don  Paolo’s  influence,  is  beginning 
to  believe  in  God.  Don  Paolo,  in  an  episode  managed 
with  rare  reticence  and  truth,  interferes  in  behalf  of  the 
lovers.  Marzio  resolves  to  kill  him  and  almost  succeeds. 
Everything  comes  right  in  the  end — even  Marzio,  though 
he  certainly  does  not  deserve  it.  It  would  perhaps  pre- 
vent some  of  our  friends  from  reading  Marzic? s Crucifix 
if  we  told  how ; and  it  is  well  worth  reading.  Mr.  Craw- 
ford’s versatility  has  not  as  yet  showed  that  he  is  weak. 
The  persons  in  Marzio' s Crucifix  are  exquisitely  clear-cut 
and  true;  and  the  bits  of  wit  and  wisdom  scattered 
through  its  pages  are  veritable  gems.  Mr.  Crawford’s 
Cardinal — how  delightful  it  is  to  find  in  a novel  cardinals 
and  priests  in  whose  company  one  can  feel  as  safe  as  if 
they  were  in  real  life ! — says  that 

“ ‘ It  would  take  a long  time  to  build  a church  if  you  only  em- 
ployed masons  who  were  in  a state  of  grace.’  ‘Your  brother,  ’ continues 
the  Cardinal,  speaking  to  Don  Paolo,  ‘ represents  an  idea.  That  idea 
is  the  subversion  of  all  social  principle.  It  is  an  idea  which  must 
spread,  because  there  is  an  enormous  number  of  depraved  men  in  the 
world  who  have  a very  great  interest  in  the  destruction  of  law.  The 
watchword  of  that  party  will  always  be,  “ There  is  no  God,”  because 
God  is  order,  and  they  desire  disorder.  They  will,  it  is  true,  always 
be  a minority,  because  the  greater  part  of  mankind  are  determined 
that  order  shall  not  be  destroyed.  But  those  fellows  will  fight  to  the 
death,  because  they  know  that  in  that  battle  there  will  be  no  quarter 
for  the  vanquished.  It  will  be  a mighty  struggle  and  will  last  long, 
but  it  will  be  decisive,  and  will  perhaps  never  be  revived  when  it  is 
once  over.  Men  will  kill  each  other  wherever  they  meet,  during 
months  and  years,  before  the  end  comes  ; for  all  men  who  say  that 
there  is  a God  in  heaven  will  be  upon  one  side,  and  all  those  who  say 
there  is  no  God  will  be  upon  the  other.  ” 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


27 


It  is  remarkable  that  in  The  New  Antigone , in  Narka , 
in  Marzids  Crucifix  the  church  is  recognized  as  the  only 
stronghold  of  faith  against  the  rising  of  unbelief. 

Stockton:  “ Hundredth  Man.” 

Mr.  Frank  Stockton’s  Hundredth  Man  (New  York: 
Charles  Scribner’s  Sons)  is  unequal.  The  passages  that 
treat  of  life  in  a New  York  restaurant  are  full  of  the  quaint 
realism,  the  art  of  which  Mr.  Stockton  alone  possesses; 
but  other  parts  of  the  story  are  not  so  interesting.  They 
have  an  air  of  being  incongruous  padding. 

Howells:  “April  Hopes.” 

April  Hopes , by  W.  D.  Howells  (New  York:  Harper  & 
Bros.),  is  a story  of  American  life.  It  was  once  said  of 
Anthony  Trollope  that  so  long  as  common-place  people 
continued  to  be  born  he  would  be  well  supplied  with 
characters.  The  same  thing  may  be  said  of  Mr.  How- 
ells, whose  practice,  however,  is  much  better  than  his 
theories.  If  his  people  talk  as  people  do  talk  in  every- 
day life — platitudes  and  trivialities  in  doubtful  English 
— it  is  the  worst  that  can  be  said  of  them.  They  are 
innocent-minded  and  innocent-tongued  people.  Sup- 
pose he  should  follow  up  his  expressed  admiration  of 
the  Russian  novelists  by  giving  us  pictures  of  the  evil  that 
works  around  us ! Let , us  not  find  fault  with  the  silly 
young  collegian  and  the  clever  young  Ritualistic  girl  in 
April  Hopes.  They  are  true  to  nature,  so  far  as  they  go.^ 
Whether  they  are  worth  the  pages  they  get  is  a question. 
At  any  rate,  Mr.  Howells  has  the  art  of  making  stupid 
people  so  interesting  that  one  follows  them,  although 
grumbling  at  the  exertion. 


28 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


Frederic:  “ Seth’s  Brother’s  Wife.” 

Seth's  Brother's  Wife , by  Harold  Frederic  (New  York: 
Charles  Scribner’s  Sons),  and  Her  Two  Millions , by  Wil- 
liam Westall  (Harper  & Bros.),  are  novels  which  serve  to 
show  that  a journalist  has  a hard  time  in  this  world  to 
keep  his  place  in  his  profession  without  surrendering  his 
principles.  Seth  manages  to  do  it ; Balmaine  does  it,  too 
— but  accepts  the  probability  of  starvation  in  order  to  do 
it.  The  early  chapters  of  Seth's  Brother's  Wife  are  de- 
lightful. Seth,  newly  come  into  a newspaper  office,  trem- 
bles before  the  tasks  set  him — those  of  compiling  “ Society 
Jottings”  and  “Art,  Music,  and  the  Drama.” 

“ ‘Well,  at  any  rate,’  said  an  editor,  ‘you  can  do  “Agricul- 
tural you  must  know  that  right  down  to  the  ground.’  Seth  assents 
and  declares  that  the  stuff  the  papers  print  for  farmers  is  pure  rub- 
bish. ‘ I suppose  it  is,’  assents  Mr.  Tyler.  ‘ I know  that  Dent — he 
is  a New  York  City  boy,  who  doesn’t  know  clover  from  cabbage — 
once  put  in  a paragraph  about  the  importance  of  feeding  chickens  on 
rock-salt,  and  an  old  farmer  from  Baltus  came  in  early  one  morning 
and  whaled  the  bookkeeper  out  of  his  boots  because  he  had  followed 
the  advice  and  killed  all  his  hens.  There  must  be  some  funny  man 
out  West  somewhere  who  makes  up 'these  bad  agricultural  paragraphs, 
and  of  course  they  get  copied.  How  can  fellows  like  Dent,  for  in- 
stance, tell  which  are  good  and  which  not?  Then  there’s  “Re- 
ligious.” ‘ You  can  do  that  easily  enough.’  ‘ Yes,’  interposed  Mur- 
tagh,  ‘ all  you  have  to  do  is  to  lay  for  the  Obogo  Evening  Mercury. 
Every  Saturday  that  has  a column  of  “ Religious.”  Alec  Watson,  a 
fellow  in  that  office,  has  fifty-two  of  these  columns,  extracts  from 
Thomas  a Kempis,  and  Wesley,  and  Spurgeon,  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
which  have  been  running  in  the  Mercury  since  before  the  war. 
When  New  Year’s  comes  he  starts  ’em  going  again,  round  and  round. 
Nobody  knows  the  difference.’  . . • 6 Then  there  ought  to  be  some 
originality  about  it,  too,’  said  Tom  Watts.  ‘It  is  just  as  well  to 
sling  in  some  items  of  your  own,  I think,  such  as  “There  is  a grow- 
ing desire  among  the  Baptists  to  have  Bishops,  like  other  people,”  or, 
“It  is  understood  that  at  the  coming  consistory  the  Pope  will 
create  seven  new  American  cardinals.”  That  last  is  a particularly 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS 


29 


good  point.  Every  once  in  a while  predict  more  cardinals.  It 
doesn’t  hurt  anybody  and  it  makes  you  solid  when  the  thing  does 
happen.  There’s  nothing  like  original  news  to  show  the  influence 
of  journalism.  One  morning,  after  the  cakes  had  been  bad  for  a 
week,  heavy,  sour,  or  something  else,  I said  to  my  landlady  that  the 
fault  must  be  in  the  buckwheat.  She  said  no,  she  didn’t  think  so, 
for  the  flour  looked  very  nice  indeed.  I put  a line  in  “ Local 
Glimpses  ” that  day,  saying  that  unfortunately  the  buckwheat  this 
year  was  of  inferior  quality,  and  the  very  next  morning  she  apologized 
to  me  : said  I was  right  ; the  buckwheat  was  bad  ; she  had  read  it  so 
in  the  Chronicle.  Can  you  imagine  a nobler  example  of  the  power  of 
the  press?’” 

Seth,  like  all  the  heroes,  dangles  between  a very  nice 
girl  and  his  brother’s  wife,  who  is  a bad  woman,  not  well 
described.  He  finally  chooses  the  nice  girl.  Mr.  Fred- 
eric’s narrative  is  good  and  his  perception  of  the  dramatic 
quick.  The  scene  between  Seth  and  his  brother’s  wife, 
when  she  thinks  that  he  has  murdered  his  brother  for  her 
sake,  has  terrible  elements  in  it ; but  somehow  it  is  not 
terrible.  The  book  is  good  until  Seth  begins  to  make  love 
to  his  brother’s  wife.  If  Mr.  Frederic  could  cut  out  half 
his  novel  and  add  matter  half  as  good  as  the  first  part,  his 
work  would  justify  the  great  expectations  based  on  his 
previous  reputation. 

Westall:  “Her  Two  Millions.” 

Mr.  Westall’s  Her  Two  Millions  is  an  improvement  on 
his  other  story,  A Fair  Crusader.  Its  moral  is  a good  one 
— that  no  journal  can  be  honest  and  independent  which 
must  trim  and  sway  according  to  the  interests  of  its  busi- 
ness department.  The  change  in  opinion  among  novel- 
ists on  Italian  affairs  is  indicated  by  the  villain  of  the 
book  being  a Garibaldian.  If  novels  are  what  comedy 
used  to  be,  a mirror  of  contemporary  opinion,  Conserva- 
tism will  shortly  be  the  fashion  and  Religion  replace  the 


3° 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


pretentious  Agnosticism  so  recently  considered  a very 
proper  state  of  mind. 


V. 

Anon.:  “ Constance  of  Arcadia.” 

An  historical  romance  which  is  neither  historical  nor 
romantic  is  a sad  example  of  bad  judgment.  Sometimes 
people  are  inclined  to  forgive  the  doubtfulness  of  the  his- 
tory in  romances — as  they  do  in  Sir  Walter  Scott’s — if 
there  be  interest,  brilliant  color,  and  dramatic  movement ; 
but  when  the  history  is  doubtful,  and  the  doubtfulness  of 
it  does  not  flavor  the  story  with  pungent  spice,  a romance 
of  that  kind  has  no  reason  to  give  for  its  existence.  Con- 
stance of  Arcadia  (Boston:  Roberts  Brothers)  has  a good 
name.  It  calls  up  associations  at  once  picturesque  and 
tender.  It  is  suggestive  of  romance  and  of  times  in  which 
an  author  could  find  dramatic  contrast  and  gorgeous  color. 
It  is  anonymous,  too,  which  is  in  its  favor.  And  yet  the 
author  has  contrived  to  make  a very  dull  narrative,  full  of 
absurdities  about  the  Jesuits,  written  with  a very  solemn 
air.  It  is  not  necessary  to  warn  anybody  against  them, 
for  the  character  of  Constance  is  too  uninteresting  to  ex- 
cite interest.  Her  mother-in-law,  Henrietta  de  la  Tour, 
is  another  puppet,  and  Charles  and  Claude  dela  Tour  are, 
like  Charnace,  only  names  without  anything  but  the 
author’s  assurance  that  they  ate,  drank,  talked,  and 
thought,  to  justify  their  place  among  human  beings. 

Constance  de  la  Tour  is  the  wife  of  Charles,  who  was 
lieutenant-governor  of  Arcadia  when  Arcadia  was  liable 
to  be  seized  at  any  moment  by  Charles  I.  of  England  or 
Louis  XIII.  Constance  is  a Huguenot  from  La  Rochelle. 
She  loved  in  France  the  Sieur  Charnace,  but  Charnace 
was  a Catholic  and  she  refused  to  marry  him.  She  took 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS, 


31 


Charles  de  la  Tour,  a canny  Frenchman,  who  was  making 
a fortune  in  Arcadia  in  the  fur  trade.  De  la  Tour  was 
strictly  a man  of  business,  an  Arcadian  Vicar  of  Bray. 
And  Constance  begins  to  ask  herself  whether  she  would 
not  have  done  better  to  haye  married  the  “ Papistical  ” 
Charnace,  when  the  latter  appears  in  Arcadia.  Charnace 
has  been  sent  out  by  the  superior  of  the  Jesuits.  He  is, 
it  seems,  a Jesuit  of  the  “short  robe.”  So  soon  as  he 
hears  that  Constance  is  alive — he  fancied  that  she  had 
died  during  the  siege  of  La  Rochelle — he,  in  his  cheerful 
“Jesuitical”  way,  thinks  on  means  for  destroying  Con- 
stance’s husband. 

“He  would  not,”  writes  the  author,  “be  too  scrupulous.  It 
was  surely  an  accusation  of  the  enemies  of  the  holy  church,  emanat- 
ing from  the  great  adversary,  that  he  himself”  (Charnace,  not  the 
devil),  “in  obeying  his  superior,  was  willing  to  do  evil  that  good 
might  come.  Is  not  all  evil  in  the  motive  ? The  motive  is  good — • 
the  greater  glory  of  God.  Does  not  this  holy  end  make  holy  the 
means  needful  to  reach  that  end  ? The  life,  or  at  least  the  liberty,  or 
at  least  the  carnal  prosperity  of  La  Tour  must  be  sacrificed — for  the 
good  of  the  church,  the  state,  the  holy  Hundred  Associates  who  were 
to  plant  Catholic  colonies,  and  also  for  the  spiritual  good  of  La  Tour 
himself.’’ 

Charnace,  having  convinced  himself  in  this  manner  that 
it  is  his  duty  to  ruin  Constance’s  husband,  goes  to  “ his 
priest,  Fra  Cupavo,  and  receives  the  sacrament.”  This 
confessor  is  a Jesuit,  too,  but,  according  to  the  author  of 
Constance , he  is  also  a friar.  Later  Charnace,  in  spite  of 
his  piety,  shoots  off  the  lobes  of  his  confessor’s  ears,  who 
looks  on  the  sieur  as  his  “ master.”  This  condition  of 
affairs  has  evidently  been  evolved  from  the  inner  con- 
sciousness of  the  author.  Charnace  longs  earnestly  to 
dispose  of  De  la  Tour,  that  Constance  might  perhaps, 
under  his  influence,  become  the  founder  of  a house  of 
religious.  Both  Charnace  and  Constance  die — Charnac6 


32 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


very  suddenly — without  having  spoken  the  affection  they 
feel.  After  this  the  singular  Jesuits,  who  call  one  another 
“ Fra,”  begin  to  conspire  to  get  Charnace’s  fortune,  which 
he  has  left  to  Constance’s  son,  who  is  to  be  in  charge  of 
a Huguenot  guardian.  The  Jesuit  “ friars  ” arrange  that 
a very  charming  widow  shall  declare  that  she  is  Charnace’s 
wife ; and  on  the  head  of  this  are  written  these  exceed- 
ingly silly  sentences : 

“Jean  Cupavo  [Charnace’s  confessor]  did  not,  however,  in  his 
mourning  altogether  lose  his  wits.  4 What  is  to  become  of  the 
governor’s  property?’  asked  the  priest.  ‘Is  our  mission  of 
St.  Ignatius  to  exist  only  on  paper?’  To  be  sure  his  excellency  left 
no  will  or  wife,  but  with  the  church  all  things  are  possible.  Was  it 
possible,  also,  that  the  church  would  avenge  the  father  confessor  for 
the  loss  of  the  lobes  of  his  ears,  which  he  had  borne  "without  a 
wrinkle  or  apparent  disturbance  of  temper  ? Silent  grudges  have  often 
borne  an  important  part  in  the  great  crises  of  history.  Why  not  in 
Arcadia?” 

De  la  Tour,  for  reasons  of  a pecuniary  nature,  finally 
marries  the  widow,  who 

“ Accordingly,  at  the  suggestion  of  her  confessor,  mingled  in 
her  husband’s  cup  of  the  wedding-wine  powder  of  relics  of  Saint 
Breboeuf,  the  Jesuit  father  who  suffered  martyrdom  at  the  hands  of 
the  Iroquois.  And,  after  that,  neither  she  nor  the  friars  had  reason 
to  suspect  Governor  La  Tour  of  heresy  ! ” 

It  is  a pity  that  the  author  of  Constance  of  Arcadia 
should  have  written  such  a book.  His  enemies  have  rea- 
son to  rejoice. 

Stevenson:  “ Kidnapped.” 

Mr.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  has  taken  advantage  of 
the  popularity  he  has  acquired,  by  writing  book  after  book 
in  rapid  succession,  each  better  than  the  other.  His  Kid - 

napped  (Cassell  & Co.,  limited)  is  a De-Foe-like  narrative 
of  the  adventures  of  a Scotch  youth,  David  Balfour,  who 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


33 


was  kidnapped  and  cast  away,  who  suffered  on  a desert 
isle,  lived  among  Jacobites  in  the  Highlands,  and  who 
begins  another  series  of  adventures  at  the  end  of  the  book. 
The  characteristics  of  this  story  are  manliness  and  an  ex- 
act comprehension  of  the  Highland  character.  The  dia- 
logue between  David  Balfour,  a Presbyterian,  and  Alan 
Stewart,  whose  conceptions  of  Christianity  may  be  de- 
scribed as  “ Highland,”  shows  a keen  perception  of  the 
motives  of  that  strange  people,  whose  fidelity  and  bravery 
are  proverbial: 

“ Troth  and  indeed  ! ” said  Alan,  speaking  of  a hated  Campbell, 
“ they  will  do  him  no  harm  ; the  more's  the  pity.  And  barring  that 
about  Christianity  ” — David  had  reproved  him  for  the  “un-Christi- 
anity of  blowing  off  so  many  words  in  anger” — “ barring  that  about 
Christianity  (of  which  my  opinion  is  quite  otherwise,  or  I would  be 
nae  Christian),  I am  much  of  your  mind.” 

“ Opinion  here  or  opinion  there,”  said  David,  “ it’s  a kent  thing 
that  Christianity  forbids  revenge.” 

“ Ay,  it’s  well  seen  it  was  a Campbell  taught  ye  ! It  would  be 
a convenient  thing  for  them  and  their  sort  if  there  was  no  such  a 
thing  as  a lad  and  a gun  behind  a heather  bush.” 

The  Highlands  were  in  process  of  conversion,  however, 
by  various  catechists  sent  from  Edinburgh,  some  also  ap- 
pointed by  local  dignitaries.  One  of  these  was  accused 
of  highway  robberies.  And  of  him  another  catechist  says : 

“ It  was  MacLean  of  Duart  gave  it  to  him  because  he  was 
blind.  ‘ But  perhaps  it  was  a peety,’  says  my  host ; * for  he  is  always 
on  the  road,  going  from  one  place  to  another  to  hear  the  young  folk 
say  their  catechism,  and  doubtless  that  is  a great  temptation  to  the 
poor  man.’ 

u We  had  no  sooner  come  to  the  door  of  Mr.  Henderson’s 
dwelling  than,  to  my  great  surprise  (for  I was  now  used  to  the  polite- 
ness of  the  Highlanders),  he  (another  catechist)  burst  rudely  past  me, 
dashed  into  the  room,  caught  up  a jar  and  a small  horn  spoon,  and 
began  ladling  snuff  into  his  nose  in  ...ost  excessive  quantities.  Then 
2 


34  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

he  had  a hearty  fit  of  sneezing,  and  looked  around  upon  me  with 
rather  a silly  smile. 

“ 1 It’s  a vow  I took,”  says  he.  ‘ I took  a vow  upon  me  that  I 
would  nae  carry  it.  Doubtless  it’s  a great  privation  ; but  when  I 
think  upon  the  martyrs,  not  only  to  the  Scottish  Covenant  but  to 
other  points  of  Christianity,  I think  shame  to  mind  it.  ’ ” 

Kidnapped  is  a novel  without  a love-story  running 
through  it,  and  it  is  the  more  to  be  commended  for  that. 
The  old  Germans  held  that  there  was  a great  deal  to  be 
done  in  life  by  their  young  men  before  they  should  “ turn 
to  thoughts  of  love,”  and  David  Balfour  is  an  exemplifi- 
cation of  this  opinion,  for  which  modern  society  would  be 
better  and  more  manly. 

Hamlin:  “A  Politician’s  Daughter.” 

An  American  political  novel  does  not  entice  the  cau- 
tious reader  of  light  literature.  One  knows  rather  well 
what  to  expect  by  this  time.  The  caucus,  the  conven- 
tion; the  point-lace  candidate  admitting  plebian  voters 
into  his  house ; the  agonies  of  his  wife  when  the  “ heeler  ” 
expectorates  on  her  carpet  and  brushes  against  her  bric- 
a-brac;  Saratoga,  high  white  hats,  big  gold  chains,  and 
German  and  Irish  slang  borrowed  from  the  newspaper  re- 
porters— all  this  we  have  had,  and  this  is  considered  to  be 
an  epitome  of  American  political  life.  Mrs.  Myra  Saw- 
yer Hamlin,  in  A Politician's  Daughter  (D.  Appleton  & 
Co.),  has  introduced  us  to  new  scenes.  She  takes  us  to  a 
Massachusetts  country  town.  A Boston  snob — of  the 
kind  fortunately  growing  less  common — who  fancies  that 
the  fact  that  his  great-grandfather  worked  hard  to  live 
around  Plymouth  Rock  gives  him  a patent  of  nobility, 
walks  home  with  Miss  Harcourt,  the  politician’s  daugh- 
ter, from  church.  His  name  is  Arthur  Bradley,  and  he 
carries  a tightly-rolled  umbrella  after  the  English  fashion : 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


35 


“ The  avenue  to  Elmholm  was  a long;,  winding  walk,  quite  an 
eighth  of  a mile  in  extent ; but,  arrived  at  the  great  iron  gate,  solidly 
guarded  by  two  lions,  young  Bradley  paused,  charged  with  his  um- 
brella the  turf  at  his  feet,  and  began  rather  awkwardly  : ‘You  know 
— you  see — you  will  understand,  my  dear  Miss  Harcourt,  how  impos- 
sible— how  utterly  impossible — it  is  for  me  to  go  further.  My  party 
principles,  my  personal  feelings,  my  family  and  education  are  so  op- 
posed to  your  father’s  political  attitude  that  I should  compromise  my 
dignity  by  even  entering  the  gates.  It  must  have  seemed  very 
strange  to  you  that  I have  so  repeatedly  excused  myself  from  accept- 
ing your  invitations,  especially  as  I have  been  unable  to  conceal  from 
you  or  myself  the  unbounded  admiration  I have  for  you.  You  are 
the  only  attraction  which  holds  me  in  Terratine.  Coming  here 
transiently  on  business,  I have  been  held  here  week  after  week  in 
the  hope  of  a casual  meeting  with  you,  and  I have  been  rewarded 
here  and  there,  as  you  knowr — first  by  Mrs.  Allen  in  allowing  me  to 
take  you  out  to  dinner,  and  then  by  other  kind  people  who  have  given 
me  impersonal  social  opportunities.  And  here,  at  the  end  of  six 
weeks,  I cannot  go  and  I have  no  right  to  stay.  You  know  what  my 
family  is — ” 

It  is  understood  that  the  sentiments  expressed  in  this 
speech,  which  is  suddenly  cut  short  by  Miss  Harcourt, 
are  quite  proper  to  a Bostonian  whose  ancestors  have 
grown  in  grandeur,  like  Becky  Sharp’s,  because  their  de- 
scendant has  concentrated  his  mind  on  them,  and  for  no 
other  reason.  They  seem  to  mean  insufferable  conceit 
to  the  outside  Englishman  or  American  who  is  not  a Bos- 
tonian. But  we  all  have  our  weaknesses.  The  Philadel- 
phia matron  who  would  die  rather  than  visit  persons  that 
live  west  of  Broad  Street  and  north  of  Market;  the  Bal- 
timorean who  positively  cannot  bow  to  vulgar  people 
without  a pedigree  from  the  Cecils;  the  New  York 
maiden  who  must  drop  all  acquaintances  who  cannot 
afford  to  join  the  proper  dancing  classes — all  smile  at  the 
pretensions  of  the  Bostonian.  Probably  there  was  caste 
in  early  Rome  when  the  third  generation  of  the  somewhat 
dubious  and  tarnished  gentlemen  who  founded  that  an- 


3^ 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


cient  colony  refused  to  know  anybody  not  descended  from 
the  Sabine  women. 

Miss  Harcourt  has  no  amiable  tolerance  for  the  Bosto- 
nian’s belief  in  his  family.  She  sacrilegiously  declares 
that  she  does  not  entirely  understand  what  his  family  is. 
He  answers  that  “ they  have  been  cultured  gentlemen ; 
they  have  been  educated  men ; they  have  never  been  in 
politics.”  Then  Miss  Harcourt  makes  a speech  that,  if 
delivered  on  the  stage,  would  “ bring  down  ” the  gallery. 
She  asks  if  the  gentlemen  of  ’76  had  kept  out  of  politics, 
what  would  have  become  of  the  republic? 

Miss  Harcourt  bears  herself  in  a spirited  manner 
throughout  the  novel,  rejects  a typical  politician’s  son, 
and  marries  Bradley.  After  this  she  was,  we  presume, 
translated  alive  to  the  heights  where  the  Boston  Brahmins 
sit  on  high  and  meditate  on  their  great  merits.  A Poli- 
tician' s Daughter  is  a clever  story,  sketched  rather  than 
filled  out.  There  are  some  good  satirical  hits,  and  some 
speeches  worth  remembering.  The  style  is  interesting 
but  careless ; it  is  evidently  the  work  of  a woman  of  re- 
finement, whose  observation  of  life  is  quick  but  not  far- 
reaching. 

George  Manville  Fenn’s  Double  Cunning  (Appleton  & 
Co.)  is  a sensational  novel,  nothing  more.  Katherine 
Blythe , by  Katharine  Lee,  is  a harmless  and  flavorless 
story  of  the  kind  that  English  writers  turn  out  by  the  hun- 
dred every  year. 

Valera:  “ Pepita  Ximinez.” 

Senor  Juan  Valera  is  one  oLthe  modern  Spanish  novel- 
ists who,  from  a literary  point  of  view,  deserves  recogni- 
tion from  the  world.  He  knows  and  loves  Spain;  he  has 
a delightful  style,  crisp  and  with  a sub-acid,  humorous 
flavor ; and  he  knows  how  to  tell  a story.  Pepita  Ximinez 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


37 


(Appleton  & Co.),  translated  into  English,  is  the  best 
known  of  his  works.  Senor  Valera  has  written  a long  ex- 
planatory preface  to  the  American  edition  of  this  work, 
in  which  he  explains  how  it  came  to  exist.  He  knows 
what  life  in  the  United  States  is,  for  he  was  till  recently 
Spanish  minister  at  Washington.  Senor  Valera’s  preface 
is  like  a heavy  stone  tied  to  the  tail  of  a light  and  ascend- 
ing kite.  It  is  too  heavy  for  it,  and  the  kite  would  fly 
through  the  air  all  the  more  gracefully  without  it.  The 
preface  contains  some  wise  sentences,  more  absurd  ones, 
and  several  replete  with  that  delicious  Spanish  humor 
with  which  Pepita  Ximinez  is  seasoned,  and  which  is  ob- 
scured, but  rendered  nevertheless,  as  well  as  is  possible, 
in  the  English  translation. 

It  seems  strange  that  Senor  Valera  had  thought  it  nec- 
essary to  study  the  religious  mystical  literature  of  Spain 
in  order  to  create  a pastoral  like  Pepita  Ximinez.  It 
would  be  a very  charming  book  if  it  were  not  for  an  epi- 
sode which  will  prevent  it  from  having  a place  in  the 
family  library — an  episode  which  was  not  needed  and 
which  spoils  a story  as  naive  and  reflective  of  the  Anda- 
lusian life  as  any  of  Fernan  Caballero’s,  and  with  a higher 
literary  finish.  Senor  Valera  pretends  in  his  preface  that 
he  intended  to  do  a number  of  high-sounding  things  in 
writing  Pepita  Ximinez.  He  has,  after  all,  taken  a young 
theological  student,  fervent,  pure,  docile,  but  without  a 
religious  vocation,  and  showed  how,  during  a vacation  at 
home,  he  fell  in  love  with  the  young  widow,  Pepita,  and 
married  her.  A Catholic  reading  the  story  feels  that 
Senor  Valera  knows  his  hero  and  his  hero’s  surroundings. 
Being  a Catholic  himself,  though,  he  confesses,  not  a very 
devout  one,  Senor  Valera  does  not  shock  our  sensibilities 
by  any  of  those  exasperating  misrepresentations  that  make 
absurd  books  touching  on  the  life  of  Catholics  and  writ- 


38  MODERN  NOVELS  AND'  NOVELISTS, 

ten  by  non-Catholics.  It  is  a pity  that  Senor  Valera  did 
not  leave  out  one  objectionable  scene  and  keep  his  pref- 
ace for  his  biography.  We  cannot  recommend  Pepita 
Ximinez  because  of  that  one  scene  in  which  the  student 
succumbs  to  temptation.  It  spoils  a fresh  and  true  pas- 
toral comedy.  The  old  dean  is  an  excellent  specimen  of 
the  Spanish  priesthood,  and  the  student  himself  is  a wit- 
ness for  the  inspiring  power  of  the  Catholic  Church  and 
the  wisdom  of  her  discipline.  Senor  Valera  very  superflu- 
ously supplies  his  lesson  in  a high-flown  paragraph : 

“ What  is  certain  is  that,  if  it  be  allowable  to  draw  any  conclu- 
sion from  a story,  the  inference  that  may  be  deduced  from  mine  is, 
that  faith  in  an  all-seeing  and  personal  God,  and  in  the  love  of  this 
God,  who  is  present  in  the  depths  of  the  soul,  even  when  we  refuse 
to  follow  the  higher  vocation  to  which  he  would  persuade  and  solicit 
us — even  were  we  carried  away  by  the  violence  of  mundane  passions 
to  commit,  like  Don  Luis,  almost  all  the  capital  sins  in  a single  day — 
elevates  the  soul,  purifies  the  other  emotions,  sustains  human  dignity, 
and  lends  poetry,  nobility,  and  holiness  to  the  commonest  state,  con- 
dition, and  manner  of  life.’  ” 

The  absence  of  that  cynicism — to  be  expected  from  a 
man  of  the  modern  school  of  literature — which  would 
deny  the  dignity  and  solemnity  of  the  priestly  vocation  is 
a consolatory  characteristic  of  Senor  Valera’s  work.  The 
letter  of  the  old  dean,  Don  Luis’  preceptor,  in  which  he 
says  that  a theological  student  of  “ more  poetry  than 
piety  ” had  better  not  become  a priest,  is  worthy  of  Cer- 
vantes. 


VI. 

• * 

Woolson:  “ George  Eliot  and  her  Heroines.” 

A very  refreshing  and  honestly  written  book  is  Mrs. 
Abba  Goold  Woolson’s  George  Eliot  and  her  Heromes.  It 
is  refreshing  because  it  comes  at  a time  when  the  worship 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


39 


of  George  Eliot  is  reaching  a point  at  which  it  becomes 
a “ craze.”  People  are  beginning  to  put  Mrs.  Cross  on  a 
pedestal  higher  than  Shakespeare’s,  and  an  unreasoning 
crowd  acclaim  as  supreme  an  author  who  had  great  merit 
as  a keen  observer  of  human  life  around  her,  but  whose 
gloomy,  barren,  and,  we  cannot  help  suspecting,  affected 
philosophy  distorted  much  that  ought  to  have  been  beau- 
tiful into  failure. 

It  would  be  silly  to  pretend  that  George  Eliot  was  not 
a great  literary  artist  because  her  opinions,  her  objectless 
altruism,  her  determination  to  show  that  most  marriages 
are  disastrous,  and  her  ponderous  self-consciousness  in- 
terfere with  the  value  of  her  work.  But  we  rejoice  that 
a clear-thinking  writer,  basing  her  conclusions  on  Chris- 
tian teaching,  has  pointed  out  the  flaws  that  exist  in  the 
composition  of  a literary  idol  whose  worship,  unstinted 
and  unreflecting,  must  have  an  ill  effect  on  minds  and 
morals.  Mrs.  Woolson  sums  up  the  tenets  of  the  creed 
which  Mrs.  Cross  taught,  more  or  less  veiled,  in  all  her 
writings : 

4<  Perhaps  the  fundamental  principles  of  her  belief  cannot  be 
more  clearly  and  briefly  indicated  than  by  giving  the  words  of  a per- 
sonal friend,  in  his  report  of  her  conversation  : * 

“ ‘ Taking  as  her  text  the  three  words  which  have  been  used  so 
often  as  the  inspiring  trumpet-calls  of  men — the  words  God>  Immor- 
tality, Duty — she  pronounced,  with  terrible  earnestness,  how  in- 
conceivable was  the  first,  how  unbelievable  the  second,  and  yet  how 
peremptory  and  absolute  the  third.  Never,  perhaps,  have  sterner 
accents  affirmed  the  sovereignty  of  impersonal  and  unrecompensing 
law.’ 

“ Or,  in  our  own  words,  there  was,  according  to  her  creed,  no 
supreme  Creator,  demanding  right  conduct  from  his  creatures,  and 
himself  furnishing  the  instinctive  sense  to  determine  what  right  con- 
duct is  ; no  life  beyond  this,  to  supplement  our  existence  here,  to 


* F.  W.  H.  Meyers,  in  the  Century  Magazine,  November,  1881. 


40  MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS 

atone  for  its  suffering  and  to  recompense  its  steadfast  adherence  to 
duty  ; no  comprehension  of  duty,  except  as  a generous  impulse  we 
may  chance  to  feel  to  extend  aid  and  comfort  to  fellow-creatures  as 
hopeless  as  ourselves  — creatures  who  have  no  home  in  any  other 
world,  and,  like  the  butterflies,  are  fashioned  but  for  a day,  and  that 
,a  day,  not  of  warmth  and  bloom  and  fragrance,  but  oftenerof  search- 
ing blasts,  sullen  skies,  and  frozen  fields.” 

Of  the  heroines  of  George  Eliot,  Mrs.  Woolson  truly 
says: 

“ They  do  not  die;  they  do  not  plunge  wildly  into  sin,  suffer 
stout  martyrdom,  or  surrender  proudly  to  fate.  They  simply  live  and 
live  on.  What  was  a leaping  flame  becomes  a lingering  smudge. 
There  are  no  graves  for  us  to  weep  over,  no  consoling  visions  of  a 
translation  to  the  stars.” 

Dorothea,  admirably  depicted  by  the  touch  of  genius, 
fails  miserably ; Romola  floats  away  into  self-sacrifice  that 
seems  to  hold  no  compensation  for  her;  Maggie,  in  the 
Mill  on  the  Floss , owing  to  a crooked  view  of  morality, 
suffers  horribly;  Gwendolen  becomes  a wreck;  Savona- 
rola, a shadow  in  her  hands,  fails  miserably;  Tito,  the 
most  masterly  of  her  characters,  falls  little  by  little; 
Grandcourt,  Lydgate — all  pass  before  us  disconsolate, 
unsatisfied,  unconsoled. 

Mrs.  Woolson’ s critique  is  thoroughly  comprehensive 
and  very  sound  in  both  an  ethical  and  literary  sense.  It 
i a distinction,  and  a valuable  one  for  her,  that  she  has 
not  let  herself  be  carried  away  from  her  honest  conclu- 
sions regarding  George  Eliot  and  her  works  by  the  un- 
critical estimate  which  a great  part  of  those  who  form 
public  opinion  have  made  of  the  works  of  a woman  of 
genius  who  deserves  a place  as  a novelist  beside  Mrs.  Gas- 
kell  and  Miss  Austen  rather  than  near  Thackeray  or 
Balzac,  and  as  a philosopher  to  be  ranked  among  those 
that  tried  to  pull  down  while  the  Light  that  enlighteneth 
the  world  shone  full  upon  them.  Fortunately,  genera- 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


4i 


tions  to  come  will  “ skip  ” her  theories,  as  they  have  for- 
gotten the  purpose  of  Gulliver , and  read  her  novels  for 
the  stories  which,  once  read,  can  never  be  recalled  with- 
out admiration  and  wonder  at  such  potency  and  vividness 
of  imagination  and  expression. 

Ludlow:  “ The  Captain  of  the  Janizaries.” 

The  historical  novel  is  coming  into  vogue  again,  and 
the  Rev.  James  Ludlow  is  in  the  fashion  in  giving  the 
public  The  Captain  of  the  Janizaries:  A Tale  of  the  Fall 
of  Constantinople  (New  York:  Dodd  & Mead).  Mr.  Lud- 
low chooses  as  his  hero  George  Castriot,  better  known  in 
history  as  Scanderbeg.  Mgr.  Seton,  in  Roman  Essays , 
gives  an  exhaustive  account  of  this  Albanian  prince,  who 
helped  to  save  Europe  from  Moslem  encroachments  at  a 
critical  time.  Mr.  Ludlow  has  a fine  opportunity ; he  has 
selected  his  epoch  with  discernment,  for  Sir  Walter  Scott 
could  not  have  seized  a more  stirring  time  or  a more  pic- 
turesque figure.  George  Castriot  was  forced  to  embrace 
Mohammedanism  when  young,  having  been  given  to  the 
sultan  as  a hostage.  He  became  the  first  military  man 
in  the  dominions  of  Amurath,  but  gave  up  all  his  honors 
to  fight  for  the  cross  against  the  crescent,  which  threat- 
ened soon  to  hang  over  Christian  Europe  as  a full  moon. 
He  turned  back  the  tide,  and  he  might  have  led  a new 
crusade  and  recovered  Constantinople  had  monarchs  list- 
ened to  the  voice  of  the  pope.  Mr.  Ludlow’s  romance 
starts  out  well,  but  he  fails  to  interest  us  in  Scanderbeg  or 
the  Christians.  We  are  shown  that  the  Christians,  es- 
pecially the  Latins,  were  little  better  than  the  Moslems. 
He  paints  Cardinal  Julian  as  an  ecclesiastical  fop,  and 
asserts  that  he  gave  the  Christians,  when  making  a breach 
of  faith,  “ absolution  ” for  what  they  were  about  to  do. 
The  life  of  the  Janizaries  is  well  described.  There  are 


42 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


chapters  in  which  the  action  of  the  story  is  rapid  and  its 
scenes  graphic.  But  t^iese  good  qualities  cannot  atone 
for  the  uncertain  grasp  the  author  seems  to  have  on  the 
great  religious  crisis  which  Scanderbeg  so  well  under- 
stood, and  which  made  the  battle  of  Lepanto  a glorious 
episode,  not  only  in  the  annals  of  the  world,  but  in  those 
of  the  church.  It  is  curious  that  non-Catholic  writers 

t 

seem  usually  to  sympathize  with  any  form  of  revolt  against 
the  church,  and  to  give  the  impression  that  Christianity 
did  not  exist  before  Luther  made  the  protest  he  after- 
wards remorsefully  regretted 

“Life  of  a Prig.” 

The  Life  of  a Trig,  by  One , reprinted  by  Henry  Holt  & 
Co.  (New  York)  from  the  second  English  edition,  is  a 
neat  bit  of  satire.  It  is  apparently  a very  gay  trifle,  but, 
nevertheless,  it  has  a keen  point.  It  is  an  arrow  that 
pierces  none  the  less  deeply  because  it  is  feathered  with  a 
tinted  plume.  The  prig  is  a type  of  the  self-conceited, 
self-confident,  self-sufficient  “ seeker  after  truth  ” more 
common  in  England  than  anywhere  else.  The  prig  pre- 
tends that  he  wants  to  find  the  truth,  when  he  really  only 
wants  to  gratify  his  vanity  by  an  assumption  of  being  of 
the  aristocracy  of  letters.  He  is  an  Oxford  man  afflicted 
with  an  ambition  to  be  “ higher  ” than  any  of  his  brother- 
Anglicans. 

“ I happened  to  meet  a Roman  Catholic  lady,”  writes  the  prig, 
when  he  had  gotten  so  ‘ high  ’ that  his  head  was  thumping  against 
the  roof  of  the  Anglican  structure,  “ whom  I had  known  for  many 
years.  To  her  I confided  the  possibility  of  my  considering  the  claims 
of  the  Church  of  Rome.  Instead  of  expressing  unbounded  joy  at  the 
prospect  of  the  conversion  of  a man  of  my  attainments,  to  my  utter 
astonishment  she  urged  me  to  4 pray  for  light.’  / pray  for  light! 
And  she  to  recommend  me  to  do  so  ! Why,  this  woman’s  theological 
training  would  have  been  a mere  grain  of  sand  to  the  shores  of  the 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


43 


Atlantic  in  comparison  with  mine.  The  temptation  to  point  out  the 
darkness  of  her  own  ignorance  was  well-ijigh  irresistible,  and  her  im- 
pertinence was  unbearable  ; but  while  I was  still  staggering  with 
amazement  she  added  that  she  would  pray  for  me.  This  fairly  took 
my  breath  away,  and  I fled  from  the  scene.  Verily,  the  assurance  of 
some  people  is  astounding  ! A friend  had  once  recommended  me  to 
endeavor  to  see  a little  behind  the  scenes  before  I made  up  my  mind 
to  join  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  I now  felt  that  there  was  some  force 
in  his  advice  ; for  if  a Roman  Catholic  of  nomental  culture  could  be 
so  impertinent  as  to  suggest  to  an  Oxford  man  who  had  taken  high 
honors  that  he  should  pray  for  light,  there  must  be  something  wrong 
about  Romanism.” 

The  prig  progresses  towards  Agnosticism  and  narrates  his 
experiences  with  delightful  simplicity.  He  goes  through 
Brahminism,  Buddhism,  and  depicts  Confucius  with  the 
same  feeling  of  superiority.  He  is  constantly  confounded, 
but  he  does  not  know  it.  His  meeting  with  an  Agnostic 
boy  who  practises  what  the  prig  only  theorizes  on  is  a 
shock  to  the  prig,  but  he  recovers  from  it  with  his  usual 
elasticity:, 

“When  I joined  my  pupil  in  the  school-room  he  said:  ‘I 
am  anxious  for  your  opinion  on  the  plurality  of  wives.  The  modern 
law  of  marriage  is,  of  course,  a mere  matter  of  accident  and  con- 
venience. It  seems  to  me  that  the  deeply  religious  man  should 
propagate  the  truth  by  marrying  a thousand  wives  and  bringing  up 
his  children  to  believe  in  nothing. 

This  logical  young  Agnostic  goes  on  to  say  on  the  pro- 
priety of  marriage : 

“ My  father,  for  instance,  ought  not  to  have  married.  He  is 
gouty,  there  is  lunacy  in  his  family,  and  his  temper  is  uncertain.  I 
ought  never  to  marry  for  the  same  reason,  and  furthermore,  because 
I am  delicate.  Indeed,  I doubt  whether  I am  fit  to  survive  ; and  if 
my  frame  does  not  develop  itself  in  three  or  four  years  I think  it  will 
be  my  duty  to  destroy  myself.,, 

The  Life  of  a Prig  is  a clever  booklet.  The  manner  of 
the  satire  is  most  refined  and  in  perfectly  good  taste. 


44 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


Henderson:  “ The  Prelate.” 

The  Prelate:  A Novel , by  Isaac  Henderson  (Boston: 
Ticknor  & Co.),  is  the  story  of  a certain  Mgr.  Altieri,  who 
feels  that  the  people  of  Italy  are  thirsting  for  a “ pure  and 
patriotic  religion  which  they  can  make  part  of  their  daily 
lives.”  He  leaves  the  church  and  proceeds  to  establish 
this  national  religion  in  sympathy  with  the  national  wel- 
fare. The  Jesuits  become  alarmed  and  form  a horrible 
plot  against  him — so  horrible  that  the  author  of  this  book 
cannot  make  out  what  it  is.  A young  Jesuit,  who  calls 
himself  “ Giuseppe,”  and  who  is  less  hardened  than  his 
brethren,  kneels  near  a beautiful  American,  Helen  Rath- 
borne,  in  St.  Peter’s  during  a “ festal  The  music  is  pow- 
erful, and  under  cover  of  its  rolling  tone  the  tender-hearted 
Giuseppe  reveals  the  existence  of  the  Jesuit  plot  to  Miss 
Rathborne,  who  assists  at  church  services  armed  with  “ a 
translation  of  a Roman  Catholic  mission.”  This  episode 
was  probably  suggested  by  one  said  to  have  occurred  in 
the  Music  Hall  at  Boston  while  the  great  organ  was  thun- 
dering. A housekeeper,  determined  not  to  let  music  in- 
convenience her,  took  advantage  of  a fugue  to  give  some 
information  to  a friend,  and  when  the  sound  abruptly 
ceased  she  was  heard  stridently  saying,  “We  fry  ours  in 
oil.”  A knowledge  of  the  origin  of  the  source  of  chapter 
xii.  in  The  Prelate  adds  greatly  to  the  interest  of  it.  Sup- 
pose Giuseppe  should  be  caught  in  a similar  manner  and 
be  heard  yelling  his  mysterious  words  in  St.  Peter’s! 
What  would  the  Inquisition  do? 

“ Presently,”  writes  Mr.  Isaac  Henderson,  “ Helen  started  as  she 
realized  that  something  had  been  slipped  into  the  hand  which  rested 
upon  her  parasol.  Looking  down  quickly,  she  saw  only  the  kneeling 
priest,  whose  lips  moved  as  though  he  were  praying,  and  whose  man- 
ner betrayed  no  knowledge  of  the  strange  circumstance.  As  her  eyes 
rested  an  instant  upon  his  face  he  muttered  distinctly,  without  seem- 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


45 


ing  to  see  her,  the  word  4 Read,’  and  was  instantly  absorbed  again  in 
prayer.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  open  her  hand  and  let  the  paper 
fall,  but  the  thought  flashed  across  her  mind  that  possibly  the  young 
priest  was  in  trouble,  and,  desiring  to  Communicate  with  the  outer 
world,  had  chosen  this  opportunity  and  method.  In  any  case,  she 
reasoned,  it  could  do  no  harm  to  examine  the  paper.” 

Miss  Rathborne  saw  the  words,  “A  friend  is  in  danger 
— kneel!  ” “ Without  further  hesitation  she  began  to  sink 
to  her  knees.  Mrs.  Wrexel  noticed  the  movement,  and, 
stiff  little  Protestant  that  she  was,  her  surprise  and  horror 
were  so  evident  that  Helen  intuitively  straightened  herself 
again.”  But  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her  scruples.  She 
heard  the  young  priest  whisper,  “ Tell  Altieri,”  and  then, 

“ Guarda/”  in  “his  native  tongue.”  “ How  did  you  learn 
it?”  she  whispered.  “ It  was  some  time  before  he  re- 
plied, but  presently  the  peals  of  the  organ  burst  forth,  and 
he  said,  ‘ I overheard  it,  by  God’s  will ! ’ ” 

After  a while  “ the  congregation  broke  out  into  a gen- 
eral response.  ‘You  must  tell  me  your  name,’  she  whis- 
pered. ‘I  dare  not;  I had  better  die .’  When  the  next 
general  response  was  made  she  said,  distinctly,  ‘ Then 
I’ll  not  take  the  risk  either.’  ” Finally  the  young  priest 
whispered,  “ Giuseppe.” 

Miss  Rathborne  visited  the  monsignore — or,  rather,  the 
late  monsignore — to  warn  him.  She  was  seen  to  enter 
his  apartments  by  several  ladies.  She  talked  with  this 
fascinating  “ Old  Catholic,”  founder  of  the  Italian  patri- 
otic church,  for  two  hours.  'f? 

Her  troubles  begin.  The  Americans  and  English  in 
Rome  “ cut  ” her.  She  is  taken  up  by  an  Italian  princess 
who  is  no  better  than  she  should  be.  She  will  not  reveal 
the  reason  that  made  her  visit  “ the  prelate.”  She  has 
promised  not  to  do  it,  and  the  young  priest,  who  fears  the 
vengeance  of  the  Jesuits,  insists  that  she  shall  lose  her 


46  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

reputation  rather  than  tell  what  the  music  in  St.  Peter’s 
had  concealed  so  much  more  effectively  than  the  fugue  in 
the  Boston  Music  Hall.  On  this  absurd  thread  of  plot 
The  Prelate  hangs.  “ Monsignore  ” Altieri  is,  of  course, 
about  to  marry  the  heroic  young  American  girl  when  he 
is  fortunately  drowned  during  a very  weak  storm. 

Elliott:  “The  Felmeres.” 

The  Felmeres , by  S.  B.  Elliott  (New  York:  D.  Apple- 
ton  & Co.),  is  a novel  with  an  Agnostic  heroine.  It  is  a 
powerful  story,  but  not  a healthy  one.  It  leaves  an  im- 
pression of  hopelessness  which  is  unrelieved  by  the  only 
consolation  offered  by  the  author: 

“ Behold,  we  know  not  anything  : 

I can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  off — at  last  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring.” 

Helen  Felmere  has  been  brought  up  ip.  a lonely  country 
place  by  an  infidel  father.  Near  their  house  is  a Catholic 
church,  served  by  Father  Paul,  whom  Mr.  Felmere  dis- 
likes intensely.  Helen’s  mother  left  the  place  years  be- 
fore, and  her  husband  thus  speaks  of  her : 

“ ‘ She  never  loved  me — never  ! ’ he  cried.  ‘ She  married  me  at 
the  instigation  of  her  priest  for  the  benefit  of  their  church  ; she  left 
me  at  the  instigation  of  her  priest  because  I was  an  obstinate  heretic, 
and  unexpectedly  a poor  one  ! And  she  took  with  her  my  son — my 
only  son  ! — blasting  and  desolating  my  life  because  she  was  a Chris- 
tian ! And  in  this  countryside  she  is  almost  canonized  because  she 
broke  her  vows  to  her  God,  leaving  home,  and  husband,  and  what  she 
thought  was  a dying  child,  in  obedience  to  her  priest  and  conscience  ! 
She  is  sainted  ; we  are  condemned,  cast  out ! ’ ” 

This  is  a false  note.  It  jars  all  through  the  book.  The 
author  accepts  this  version  of  the  motives  which  led  a 
Catholic  to  become  the  wife  of  an  infidel  as  true.  In  the 
mouth  of  an  angry  man  it  might  not  be  out  of  place.  But 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


*7 


in  a book  in  which  the  struggles  of  faith  and  un-faith  are 
depicted,  it  is  unfair  to  weigh  down  with  assumed  wrong 
the  strongest  power  against  infidelity.  The  reader  is  at 
once  given  to  understand  that  a church  which  advises  a 
mixed  marriage  for  the  sake  of  temporal  gain,  and  then 
obliges  a wife  to  desert  her  husband  because  the  gain 
proves  less  than  it  was  supposed  to  be,  is  practically  worse 
than  Agnosticism.  The  author  of  The  Felmeres  might 
have  made  a noble  book  had  he  taken  the  trouble  to  find 
out  the  real  doctrine  of  the  church  on  mixed  marriages, 
or  had  he  not  been  so  eager  to  put  the  Catholic  Church 
in  the  wrong.  No  hint  is  given  that  Mr.  Felmere  made 
the  usual  promises  when  he  married  his  Catholic  wife. 
He  probably  did,  as  he  was  dealing  with  such  a zealous 
priest  as  “ Father  Paul.”  In  that  case  it  was  he  who  broke 
his  pledge  by  insisting  on  his  children  remaining  unbap- 
tized. However,  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  very  begin- 
ning of  the  book  is  branded  with  dishonesty.  Later  in 
the  story  Helen  meets  the  Rev.  Mr.  Heath,  the  best  ex- 
emplar of  Christianity  in  the  book.  He  turns  out  to  be 
her  brother: 

“ ‘ You  were  not  educated  an  unbeliever  ?’  she  asked. 

“ 4 No  ! I was  brought  up  a Romanist/ 

“ 1 How,  then,  are  you  an  Anglican  ? * 

“ ‘ The  Romish  Church,  or  rather  a mistaken  priest,  made  my 
mother  commit  a great  wrong  ! ’ he  answered  slowly,  ‘ and  I could 
no  longer  tolerate  or  trust  its  teachings.  It  was  a bitter  trial  to  for- 
sake the  religion  of  my  mother,  but  truth  compelled  me  to.’  ” 

It  is  not  strange  that  Helen  clings  to  her  father’s  mem- 
ory: he,  at  least,  was  consistent ; but  the  Christians  around 
her  only  held  one  doctrine  in  common — hatred  of  Rome. 
She  has  married  a man  whom  she  does  not  love,  and  has 
met  a man  whom  she  does  love.  She  is  frank  and  plain- 
spoken  to  a degree  that  excites  sympathy  lor  the  husband, 


48 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


whose  worst  fault  was  in  marrying  her.  She  does  not 
pretend  to  disguise  her  preference,  although  she  remains 
pure  in  thought  and  deed.  She  has  the  pagan  virtues, 
but  not  the  Christian  ones.  A time  comes  when  she  must 
let  her  little  child  be  baptized  or  flee  with  him.  With  a 
self-abnegation  in  contrast  to  the  “ weakness  ” of  her 
“ Romanist  ” mother,  she  resolves  to  give  the  child  up  to 
the  Christians.  He  is  about  to  be  taken  away  trom  her, 
with  her  consent,  when  she  falls  under  the  carriage-wheels 
in  a last  effort  to  grasp  her  child,  and  dies  defying  God. 

The  sympathy  of  the  reader  is  directed,  so  far  as  the 
author  of  The  Felmeres  can  direct  it,  towards  the  heroine ; 
and  Helen,  compared  with  the  Christians  around  her,  is 
a person  worthy  of  respect.  The  Christians  have  very  lit- 
tle to  say  for  their  creed,  and  even  Felix  Gordon,  the 
hero  of  the  novel,  is  almost  led  to  doubt  by  the  young 
nationalist.  He  has  few  arguments  against  hers.  Felix 
declares  that  “the  Romish  Church  claims  the  authority 
to  annul  any  oath  or  loose  any  tie,  however  sacred  ” — im- 
plying that  the  church  can  break  the  marriage-bond  after 
it  has  been  once  joined.  Helen  evidently  had  some  ex- 
cuse for  clinging  to  her  rationalism  when  the  only  church 
that  could  give  her  consolation  was  so  continually  misrep- 
resented. Rev.  Heber  Newton  attacks  Christianity  and 
calls  it  “ Romanism.”  Protestants  are  constantly  cutting 
the  ground  from  under  their  own  feet  in  their  arguments 
with  rationalists  by  doing  the  same  thing.  Helen  Fel- 
mere  will  not  believe  in  God,  principally  because  she  fears 
that  there  is  a hereafter,  in  which  her  father  will  accuse 
her  of  having  deserted  him.  None  of  the  Christians  in 
the  novel  have  acumen  enough  to  point  out  her  illogical 
state  of  mind  to  her.  Octave  Feuillet,  in  La  Morte , treats 
rationalism  as  applied  to  the  education  of  young  girls ; 
but  his  subject — a girl  brought  up  by  an  infidel  father — 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  49 

steeps  herself  in  crime,  as  Christianity  does  not  control 
her  thoughts  or  restrain  her  passions.  The  heroine  of 
The  Felmeres , on  the  contrary,  does  no  wrong ; she  suffers 
wrong;  she  resists  temptation;  she  is  truthful  and  pure 
without  any  strong  motives  for  being  so.  She  dislikes  her 
husband ; her  home  has  been  made  unhappy  by  a med- 
dling mother-in-law ; but  she  stands  firm  to  her  duty,  and, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  author,  makes  a sublime  sacrifice  of 
which  her  mother  was  incapable.  She  denies  the  exist- 
ence of  God  for  fear  that  there  is  a God  who  has  an  eter- 
nity. The  girl  in  The  Bostonians , who  is  a mirror  of  purity, 
but  who  prefers  free  love  to  marriage,  is  really  a less  in- 
consistent creature.  The  author  of  The  Felmeres  can 
write  well  and  strongly ; the  pathos  of  the  book  is  at  times 
heart-touching ; but  his  study  of  the  problem  he  touches 
and  of  the  characters  he  sketches  has  not  reached  the 
inner  life.  Octave  Feuillet  makes  his  infidel  woman  a 
fiend;  S.  B.  Elliott  makes  her  a martyr;  whereas  in  real 
life  there  lately  died  one  who  in  her  theories  soared  to  a 
Positivist  heaven,  but  in  her  life  sank,  weighed  down  by 
these  beautiful  theories,  to  the  commission  of  public  sin. 
This  was  George  Eliot. 

VII. 

Dahlgren : “ The  Lost  Name.” 

It  is  safe  to  expect  that  the  heroine  of  every  eight  Eng- 
lish novels  out  of  ten  will  be  a married  woman  in  love  with 
some  paragon  of  the  opposite  sex.  The  afflicted  fair  who 
marries  the  wrong  man  is  a favorite  with  the  “ lady  novel- 
ist.” And  an  essay  on  the  pruriency  of  the  “lady  nov- 
elist’s ” manner  of  putting  her  heroines  into  suggestive 
situations  might  be  made  as  trenchant  as  Louis  Veuillot’s 
famous-  attack  on  the  femmes-aateurs  of  his  time.  A batch 


50  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

of  these  have  gone  into  the  waste-basket.  The  Lost 
Name , by  Madeline  Vinton  Dahlgren  (Boston:  Ticknor 
& Co.),  is  not  among  them.  It  is  the  story  of  a young 
American  whose  ancestor  back  in  the  reign  of  the  French 
king  Louis  XV.  dropped  his  name.  He  confesses  this 
deplorable  fact  to  the  Southern  girl  he  expects  to  marry. 
He  is  in  the  position  of  little  Bo-peep  after  she  lost  her 
sheep — or  rather,  as  if  little  Bo-peep’s  great-grandfather 
had  told  her  that  the  sheep  had  been  lost  years  ago.  Lit- 
tle Bo-peep,  presumably  a child  of  discretion,  would  have 
made  no  attempt  to  take  up  a wild-sheep  chase.  But 
the  young  American  does,  because  the  proud  Southern 
girl  refuses  to  marry  him  until  he  finds  out  the  name  his 
ancestor  had  dropped ; he  succeeds  with  much  ease.  He 
becomes  the  Marquis  de  Saint-Sorlin.  Having  elevated 
him  to  this  pinnacle,  Mrs.  Dahlgren  shows  how  strong  his 
American  blood  is.  “ First  and  best,”  writes  the  Mar- 
quis de  Saint-Sorlin,  “ I love  my  -native  country,  America, 
and  I meet  the  inexorable  fate  of  its  men.  I have  be- 
come matter-of-fact.  I have  embraced  a profession.  I 
am  in  league  with  the  great  power  of  this  nation.  My 
whole  life  is  now  devoted  to  romancing,  but  in  a business 
way;  for,  dear  reader,  I am  a journalist.”  A Lost  Name 
will  not  bring  a blush  to  the  cheek  of  any  young  person. 

Laurence  Tadema ; “ Love’s  Martyr.” 

Lorenz  Alma-Tadema  has  made  himself  famous  by  his 
sensuous — not  sensual — pictures,  in  which  color  runs  riot, 
the  green  sea  bathes  an  azure  sky,  Roman  figures  lounge 
among  poppies,  oleanders,  and  peacocks  on  white  marble 
terraces.  The  artist  was  born  in  Holland,  though  he  is 
now  a naturalized  British  citizen.  “Alma  ” was  added  to 
his  family  name,  Tadema,  to  give  him  a better  place  in 
the  alphabetical  picture-catalogues.  His  daughter,  Lau- 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  51 

rcnce,  now  offers  the  world  a novel.  The  style  is  won- 
derfully clear  and  idiomatic.  Love's  Martyr  (New  York: 
D.  Appleton  & Co.)  is  an  intense  story.  It  would  have 
pleased  Rossetti.  It  is  an  analysis,  very  skillfully  made, 
of  an  unusual  and  morbid  character.  The  manner  of  the 
book  deserves  the  praise  it  has  received.  Miss  Austen 
herself  could  not  have  described  the  bucolic  English 
squire’s  family  more  forcibly  and  with  less  effort,  and 
Charlotte  Bronte’s  Ja?ie  Eyre  has  no  passages  stronger 
than  some  in  Love'' s Martyr.  The  book  is  quite  as  un- 
healthy as  Jane  Eyre.  Who  is  “love’s  martyr?”  The 
woman  who  marries  a man,  having  offered  herself  as  the 
mistress  of  another  man  and  been  rejected?  Or  the  man 
who,  knowing  this,  takes  her  to  be  his  wife  and  then  suf- 
fers the  agonies  of  jealousy,  founded  on  this  tact  and  on 
the  knowledge  that  she  holds  her  lover  still  in  her  heart? 
Laurence  Alma-Tadema  does  not  answer  this  question. 
Her  affair — she  evidently  holds  the  theory  of  the  realists 
— is  merely  to  present  a picture  as  she  sees  it,  not  to  draw 
conclusions  or  answer  questions.  Rosamund,  the  heroine 
of  Love's  Martyr , is  a girl  who  has  been  brought  up  with- 
out religion.  Her  father,  an  Englishman,  married  her 
mother  in  Paris.  They  were  both  murdered  during  the 
Reign  of  Terror,  and  the  child  is  sent  home  to  her  uncle, 
who  is  a country  squire  of  the  eighteenth  century,  coarse, 
brutal,  good-hearted  when  in  the  humor.  The  child  is 
adopted  by  him,  and,  in  her  new  home,  leads  the  life  of 
an  outlaw.  Mrs.  Merry,  the  squire’s  wife,  is  equally  coarse 
and  much  meaner.  She  gives  a sketch  of  her  first  intro- 
duction to  Rosamund: 

<k  ‘ O Mr.  Field  ! if  you  only  knew  what  an  eyesore  and  a worrit 
that  girl’s  been  to  me,  year  in  and  year  out  ; and  I was  always  taking 
her  part,  too,  against  Mr.  Merry,  when  he  might  sometimes  have 
killed  her — and  no  wonder,  I’ve  had  to  be  as  a mother  to  her,  and 


V 


52  ’ MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


she  only  my  husband's  brother’s  child,  too — none  of  my  flesh.  If  I 
lived  till  Doomsday  I should  never  forget  the  night  Mr.  Merry 
brought  the  child  into  my  room.  It  was  past  ten  of  the  clock,  and  a 
cloud  upon  his  face  such  as  you  never  saw  the  like.  “ Matilda,”  he 
said,  44  here's  another  daughter  for  you,’’  and  he  swore.  44  Daughter  ?” 
I cried.  “Yes,”  he  answered;  “it’s  Charles’  child.  Charles  and 
his  wife  are  dead.”  It  was  the  very  middle  of  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
and  I felt  mighty  sick.  I looked  at  the  little,  black,  shivering  brat, 
and  I could  V cried.  You  never  saw  a plainer  child,  and  my  own 
all  as  fair  as  angels.  Then,  would  you  believe  it,  she  ran  up  to  me, 
all  travel -stained  as  she  was — she  was  no  higher  than  that  table  ; no 
one  would  ’a’  thought  such  a wee  codling  could  grow  into  the  May- 
pole  she  is  now — and  she  clutched  hold  of  my  knee  with  her  cold, 
dirty  hands,  and  burst  out  crying  with  her  face  in  my  lap  ; and  I 
with  a nice  new  poplin  on  with  flowered  sprigs,  that  I'd  had  a-pur- 
pose  to  please  Mr.  Merry.  “ That’ll  do,  miss,”  I cried  ; “ and  don’t 
you  know  you’re  a very  naughty  child  to  cry  for  nothing  ? Stand  up  ! 
— for  shame  ! ” And  George  fell  a-laughing,  spite  that  he  was  fuii- 
ous  almost  to  bursting  with  rage  at  having  his  brother’s  leavings 
thrust  upon  him.  “ The  creature  don’t  understand  a word  you  say, 
my  dear,”  he  cried  ; “so  I’d  just  save  my  breath  to  blow  my  broth, 
if  I was  you.”  I thought  I should  ’a’  dropped.  “Lord  preserve 
me  ! ” said  I,  “ what  kind  of  a heathen  thing  have  you  brought  me 
here  ? ” And  as  I jerked  her  up  a little  gimcrack  of  a crucifix  that  she 
wore  caught  in  my  lace  ruffle,  that  had  taken  me  three  months  to 
work,  if  a day,  and  tore  a whole  inch  into  shreds.  “You  bad,  wicked 
child,  I cried,  “ look  what  you’ve  done  ! ” And,  after  giving  her  the 
smack  she  deserved,  I just  pulled  the  sinful  idol  off  her  neck  and 
tossed  it  into  the  fire.  And  if  you’d  seen  the  way  the  little  imp 
shrieked  and  wailed  in  her  idolatrous  tongue,  and  wholloped  me  with 
her  tiny  fists  when  I drew  her  from  the  fire — for  she'd  actually  put 
her  hands  into  the  flames  for  the  bawble,  and  she  has  got  the  scar  to 
this  day.” 

Rosamund,  made  desperate  by  the  coldness  and  selfish- 
ness of  those  around  her,  cries  out  against  the  God  whom 
these  smug  and  self-satisfied  “ Christians  ” pretend  to  rep- 
resent : 

“ I have  asked  Him  for  a hundred  things,  and  he  never  heard 
my  prayers,  so  I don’t  ask  him  now.  I thought  at  first  it  was  be« 


'MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


53 


cause  I did  not  know  his  book  ; so  I tried  to  read  it  and  could  not. 
And  I listened  at  church,  but  they  were  always  the  same  old  words  1 
couldn’t  understand  ; and  sometimes  I called  for  the  sweet  Lady  that 
my  mother  made  me  love,  but  she  never  came.  Oh  ! I can  show  you 
that  He  hates  me.” 

Defiant  and  desperate,  left  by  the  man  who  had  taught 
her  to  love  him,  and  then,  from  ambition,  refused  to  marry 
her  and,  from  regard  to  her,  to  degrade  her,  she  marries 
the  narrator  of  the  story.  At  last  her  lover,  who  is  dy- 
ing, catches  a glimpse  of  her,  and  they  die  together.  It 
is  a very  hopeless  book,  and  a very  morbid  one. 

At/a, , by  Mrs.  J.  Gregory  Smith  (New  York:  Harper  & 
Bros.)  is  a reconstruction  of  the  fabled  island  of  Atlantis. 
It  is  a beautiful  fantasy,  vigorously  sustained.  Its  bind- 
ing is  exquisite. 

Balzac  : “ Cesar  Birotteau.” 

The  impression  that  much  modern  literature  gives  is 
that  it  would  be  esteemed  by  its  authors  an  impertinence 
if  the  existence  of  God  were  mentioned  in  their  presence. 
It  is  a relief  to  turn  to  Balzac — a translation  of  whose 
Cesar  Birotteau  has  been  just  issued  by  Roberts  Brothers, 
of  Boston — to  find,  in  spite  of  the  recurrent  presence  of 
“ the  goddess  Lubricity  ” in  many  of  his  scenes,  that  we 
are  never  allowed  to  forget  that  right  is  right  and  wrong 
wrong ; that  sin  is  a reality,  and  that  Christianity  has  a 
profound  effect  on  the  consciences  of  human  beings,  how- 
ever low  they  may  fall  from  its  standard.  In  Char  Birot- 
teau there  is  much  more  plain-speaking  than  in  Pejide?inis, 
although  Thackeray  tells  us  that  many  estimable  ladies 
ceased  to  read  that  novel  because  he  admitted  into  his 
pages  suggestions  of  the  daily  conversations  of  their  hus- 
bands and  sons.  These  ladies  belonged  to  that  class  of 
scrupulous  Protestant  readers  who  have  been  moved  to 


54  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NO  VEIN  STS. 

declaim  more  than  once  against  the  immorality  of  the 
Catholic  Church  because  they  had  come  across  the  Table 
of  Sins  for  use  in  examination  of  conscience  in  the  prayer- 
books.  “ Protestants,”  one  of  these  rigorous  ladies  told 
the  present  writer,  “ never  admit  the  existence  of  such  j 
things.”  In  Char  Birotteau  there  are  many  words  and  * 
suggestions  which  point  to  the  effect  of  motives  that  our 
horrified  Protestant  friend  found  in  the  Table  of  Sins. 
But  there  is  none  of  that  half-veiled  apology  for  licentious- 
ness and  that  nasty  pruriency  which  is  a plague  on  English 
literature  of  fiction — especially  on  that  written  by  women. 
As  to  modern  French  literature,  nothing  can  be  more  de- 
pressing than  the  view  it  offers  of  the  French  life  of  to- 
day. M.  Daudet  tells  us  that  religion  is  formalism,  and 
M.  Zola  that  it  has  no  vital  being  in  the  hearts,  much  less 
the  minds,  of  his  countrymen,  and  that  it  disappears  from 
the  imaginations  of  his  countrywomen  at  the  sight  of  a 
lover.  M.  Balzac’s  Cesar  Birotteau  restores  our  belief  in 
the  possibility  that  the  French  people  are  not,  as  Mat- 
thew Arnold  would  have  us  believe,  devoted  to  the  wor- 
ship of  Priapus.  A bourgeoisie  blessed  with  so  much  purity 
and  honesty  as  that  of  which  Cesar  Birotteau  is  a type 
cannot  have  lost  its  faith  and  principles.  The  simple 
and  fervent  Pater  Noster  of  Cesar  Birotteau,'  when  all  the 
plans  of  his  life  have  failed,  is  truer  to  life  than  all  the 
pages  of  analysis  which  a modern  pen  would  have  given 
us.  Twenty  years  ago  Balzac  was  called  immoral.  To- 
day fiction  has  advanced  so  greatly  that  we  turn  to  his 
pages  to  find  an  antidote  for  the  flippant  assumption  that 
the  God  of  the  Christian  and  his  Commandments  are  fig- 
ments of  the  middle  ages.  It  is  refreshing  to  read  of  a 
villain  who  is  afraid  to  die  and  of  an  honest  man  whose 
honesty  is  the  result  of  his  fear  of  God  and  his  attention 
to  his  religious  duties — not  of  a combination  of  accidents. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


55 


We  do  not  approve  of  Balzac’s  works, — if  Cesar  Birot- 
teau  teaches  a good  lesson,  most  of  Balzac’s  works  teach 
bad  ones. 


VIII. 

Octave  Feuillet:  “ La  Morte.” 

A novel  which  has  appeared  in  French,  and  in  English, 
has  excited  much  attention,  because  it  is  supposed  to  be 
an  apology  for  religion  in  education.  It  is  La  Morte , by 
M.  Octave  Feuillet.  It  has  been  running  as  a serial  in 
La  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes.  M.  Feuillet,  whose  very 
pure  novel  Sybille  is,  like  M.  Halevy's  Abb / Constantin , 
one  of  the  few  modern  French  novels  that  recording 
angels  do  not  want  to  blot  out  altogether,  has  undertaken 
to  solve  a problem.  In  France  men  are  educated  in  in- 
fidelity, while  women  are  brought  up  strict  Catholics,  he 
says,  speaking  of  polite  society.  He  goes  on  to  show 
that  materialistic  education  may  be  sufficient  to  keep  a 
man  honorable,  but  that  it  must  help  to  plunge  a woman 
into  crime.  According  to  his  theory,  a man  may  be  an 
infidel  and  yet  possess  every  virtue,  but  a woman  without 
religion  becomes  at  once  a fiend.  His  heroine  is  a de- 
vout young  girl  who  marries  an  atheist  in  order  to  save 
his  soul.  Her  character  is  represented  to  be  of  the  high- 
est type ; but,  notwithstanding  her  virtues  and  self-sacri- 
fice, she  does  not  succeed  in  making  him  accept  the  teach- 
ings of  the  church.  She  is  poisoned  by  her  rival — a 
daughter  of  nature  educated  godlessly.  He  marries  this 
woman,  who  believes  that  the  soul  dies  with  the  body. 
He  finds  out  her  baseness,  the  result  of  her  education. 
To  repair  the  wrong  to  his  wife,  and  to  clear  himself  in 
her  eyes  of  the  suspicion  that  he  had  murdered  her,  he 
becomes  religious.  And  thus  M.  Feuillet  answers  the 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


56 

question,  Can  women  be  safely  educated  without  religion? 
His  answer  is,  No.  They  are  weaker  than  men,  emo- 
tional, impulsive.  While  civilized  society  may  exist  and 
progress,  if  all  the  men  were  to  carry  out  the  theories  of 
Voltaire  to  their  modern  conclusion,  it  would  suffer  if 
women  were  to  be  trusted  to  make  their  own  code  of 
morals  from  Comte  and  Darwin:  Women  need  a deposit 
of  faith,  M.  Feuillet  teaches,  but  men  can  get  along  with- 
out it.  This  is  M.  Feuillet’s  apology  for  religion  in  edu- 
cation. It  has  been  received  very  seriously  by  a large 
part  of  French  society,  which  discusses  questions  answered 
eighteen  hundred  years  ago  as  if  they  were  new.  It 
touches  an  evil  spot — inadequately,  it  is  true,  but  with  at 
least  a leaning  towards  the  side  of  faith. 

Mr.  Frank  Stockton’s  novel,  The  Late  Mrs.  Null  (New 
York:  Charles  Scribner’s  Sons),  will  not  disappoint  the 
admirers  of  that  most  genuine  and  quietest  of  American 
humorists.  The  readers  of  Rudder  Grange  will  not  find  a 
Pomona  in  The  Late  Mrs.  Null \ but  they  will  find  three 
or  four  excellent  substitutes  for  that  serious  personage. 
Mrs.  Null  herself — a strange  and  paradoxical  creation  of 
the  author’s — is  so  absurdly  real  and  yet  so  entirely  im- 
possible that  one  cannot  think  of  her  without  laughing. 
Mr.  Stockton’s  sketches  of  Virginian  life  and  scenery  are 
faithful  and  artistic.  Bits  of  description  as  true  as  this 
are  scattered  through  his  pages: 

“ Beyond  the  large  garden,  at  the  back  of  this  arbor,  stretched  a 
wide  field  with  a fringe  of  woods  at  its  distant  edge,  gay  with  the 
colors  of  autumn.  The  sky  was  bright  and  blue,  and  fair  white  clouds 
moved  slowly  over  its  surface  ; the  air  was  sunny  and  warm,  with 
humblebees  humming  about  some  late-flowering  shrubs  ; and  high  in 
the  air  floated  two  great  turkey-buzzards  with  a beauty  of  motion 
surpassed  by  no  other  living  thing,  with  never  a movement  of  their 
wide-spread  wings,  except  to  give  them  the  necessary  inclination  as 
they  rose  with  the  wind,  and  then  turned  and  descended  in  a long 


MODERN  NO  V ELS  AND  NOVEL/STS. 


57 


sweep,  only  to  rise  again  and  complete  the  circle;  jailing  thus  for 
hours,  around  and  around,  their  shadows  moving  over  the  fields  be- 
low them/’ 

Speculation  is  rife  in  the  country  hamlet  concerning 
Mrs.  Null’s  husband,  who  is  a non-existent  person.  One 
of  the  loungers  in  the  store  shows  his  deep  knowledge  of 
the  springs  of  feminine  action.  “ I reckon  his  wife  must 
be  ’spectin’  him,”  said  the  man  on  the  brogan  case,  “ from 
her  cornin’  after  fancy  vittles.” 

Aunt  Patsy  and  her  mistress,  the  awful  Mrs.  Keswick 
of  the  purple  sunbonnet,  are  unique  personalities : 

“ ‘ Aunt  Patsy,’  said  Miss  Annie,  ‘would  there  be  any  objection 
to  our  going  to  your  church  to-morrow  ! ’ 

“The  old  woman  gave  her  head  a little  shake.  ‘Dunno,’  she 
said.  ‘ As  a gin’ral  rule  we  don’t  like  white  folks  at  our  preachin’s. 
Dey’s  got  dar  chu’ches  an’  dar  ways,  an’  we's  got  our  chu’ches  an’ 
our  ways.  But  den  its’s  dif’rent  wid  you  all.  An’  you  all’s  not  like 
white  folks  in  gin’ral,  ‘an  ’specially  strawngers.  You  all  isn’t 
strawngers  now.  I don’t  reckon  dar’ll  be  no  ’jections  to  your  cornin’, 
ef  you  set  solium  ; an’  I know  you  do  dat,  Miss  Annie,  ’coz  you  did 
it  when  you  was  a little  girl.  Dar  is  white  folks  wot  comes  to  a culled 
chu’ch  fur  nothin’  else  but  to  larf.  De  debbil  gets  dem  folks , but  dat 
don  do  us  no  good.  Miss  Annie , an  we'd  rudder  dey  stay  away'  ” 

The  rude  and  boisterous  religious  exercises  of  the  ne- 
groes— a mixture  of  Methodism  and  African  paganism, 
culminating  in  the  barbaric  “Jerusalem  jump” — are  de- 
scribed with  power.  The  death  of  Aunt  Patsy  is  a fine 
piece  of  reticent  word-painting.  Mr.  Stockton  seizes  his 
hearer  by  the  button-hole  and  pours  into  his  ears  a tale 
of  absurdities  that  seem  more  than  probable.  He  smiles 
a little  to  intensify  his  gravity,  but  he  never  laughs  until 
the  end  of  his  story,  and  then  it  is  only  with  his  eyes.  It 
is  hard  to  tell  whether  he  is  smiling  with  his  hearer  or  at 
him,  but  the  effect  is  delightful  all  the  same. 


/ 


58  MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

Mr.  F.  Marion  Crawford's  new  book  is  A Tale  of  a 
Lonely  Parish  (New  York:  Macmillan  & Co.)  The 
grandiloquent  writer  of  Mr.  Isaacs  and  Zoroaster  is  here 
unrecognizable.  The  quaintness  of  A Roman  Singer  is 
absent.  The  style  is,  however,  limpid  and  good,  but  the 
story  is  hardly  worth  the  telling  in  the  number  of  pages 
Mr.  Crawford  has  devoted  to  it.  The  personages  of  the  j 
story  are  very  quiet  and  commonplace.  It  turns  out  that 
Mrs.  Goddard,  the  amiable  widow  who  has  come  to  live 
with  her  little  daughter  in  the  lonely  parish,  is  the  wife  of 
a convict.  She  is  a cold-hearted  woman,  and  the  scene 
in  which  her  husband  returns,  having  escaped  from  jail, 
brings  out  her  indifference  and  selfishness — qualities  which 
the  author  does  not  seem  to  see.  The  desire  of  Mr. 
Crawford  to  kill  the  poor  wretch,  so  that  his  wife  can 
marry  the  squire,  shows  interest  in  the  happiness  of  Mrs. 
Goddard,  but  it  is  somewhat  brutal.  Why  Mr.  Crawford 
should  have  laid  the  scene  of  his  story  in  England  is  a 
question  hard  to  answer  at  a time  when  this  country  is 
deluged  with  cheap  and  nasty  English  reprints.  Why  he 
should  have  taken  the  trouble  to  write  the  story  at  all  is  a 
still  harder  question. 

Lady  E.  Lawless : “ Hurrish.” 

Harris h:  A Study , by  the  Hon.  Emily  Lawless  (Harper 
& Bros.),  is  an  exceedingly  disagreeable  book.  It  pre- 
tends to  be  a study  of  life  in  North  Clare.  It  is  written 
with  some  cleverness  and  it  is  not  without  signs  of  talent, 
which  facts  make  all  the  more  unpardonable  the  deliber- 
ate attempt  of  the  author  to  give  the  impression  that  the 
Irish  peasant,  on  his  native  heath,  is  a bloodthirsty  pagan 
in  principle  and  a Thug  in  practice.  It  is  true  that  Ger- 
ald Griffin  painted  Danny  Mann  hideously,  but  he  did  not 
create  for  us  a colony  of  Danny  Manns  and  ask  us  to  be- 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


59 


lieve  that  they  were  natural  products  of  Irish  soil.  If  Miss 
Lawless’  view  of  the  rural  population  of  Ireland  is  largely 
shared  by  ladies  of  her  class,  it  is  not  strange  that  the  land- 
lord is  regarded  by  his  tenants  as  without  sympathy  or 
even  common  humanity.  Hurrish  is  a libel  on  Irish  life 
— the  more  necessary  to  be  denounced  that  it  has  an  ap- 
pearance of  truth.  Edna  Lyall’s  In  the  Golden  Days  (Har- 
per & Bros.)  is  a story  of  English  history  of  the  time  of 
the  Restoration.  The  days,  according  to  Miss  Lyall’s  ac- 
count, were  anything  but  “ golden,”  and  therefore  her  title 
may  be  looked  on  as  ironical.  It  is  a pure,  well-told 
story,  in  which  the  interest  is  most  artfully  kept  up  to  the 
end.  The  historical  element  is  used  with  skill,  but  not 
always  with  precision. 

Tolstoi:  “ My  Religion.” 

Count  Tolstoi,  the  Russian  rival  of  Turgueneff,  has  oc- 
cupied much  attention  of  late.  My  Religion  (New  York: 
Crowell)  shows  the  revolt  of  a mind,  shocked  by  the  for- 
malism of  a state-enslaved  church  and  the  corruption  of 
an  artificial  yet  barbarous  society,  from  the  form  of  Chris- 
tianity he  knew  best.  Count  Tolstoi’s  religion,  newly 
adopted  with  intense  fervor,  is  “ Christianity  without  im- 
mortality.” He  would  have  men  find  happiness  in  a life 
of  work,  of  simplicity,  of  brotherhood,  but  happiness  only 
in  this  life.  The  nearest  approach  to  this  ideal  life,  sup- 
posed to  be  drawn  literally  from  the  Scriptures,  is  that 
of  the  monks  of  La  Trappe  or  those  of  St.  Benedict.  All 
that  he  longs  for  is  found  in  the  Catholic  Church,  but  he 
does  not  see  it.  He  constructs  a religion  of  his  own, 
obeys  the  mandate  to  give  all  he  has  to  the  poor,  and  goes 
forth,  no  longer  a Russian  nobleman,  but,  so  far  as  he  can 
make  himself  one,  a Russian  peasant.  He  sums  up  his 
scheme  of  life  in  these  words : 


6o 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


* Everything  that  once  seemed  to  me  important,  such  as  nonors, 
glory,  civilization,  wealth,  the  complications  and  refinements  of  ex- 
istence, luxury,  rich  food,  fine  clothing,  etiquette,  have  become  for 
me  wrong  and  despicable.  Everything  that  once  seemed  to  me 
wrong  and  despicable,  such  as  rusticity,  obscurity,  poverty,  simplicity 
of  surroundings,  of  food,  of  clothes,  of  manners,  all  have  now  become 
right  and  important  to  me.  I cannot,  as  I once  did,  recognize  in 
myself  or  others  titles  or  ranks  or  qualities  aside  from  the  quality  of 
manhood.  I cannot  seek  for  fame  or  glory  ; I can  no  longer  culti- 
vate a system  of  instruction  which  separates  me  from  men.  I can  no 
longer  pursue  amusements  which  are  oil  to  the  fire  of  amorous  sensu- 
ality— the  reading  of  romances  and  the  most  of  poetry,  listening  to 
music,  attendance  at  balls  and  theatres.” 

But  at  the  end  of  all  this  he  sees  only  that  strange  con- 
tradiction, eternal  non-existence.  He  believes  that  Christ’s 
mission  was  divine,  but  deprives  that  Life  of  its  crown — 
the  Resurrection.  It  is  a sad  book,  like  all  Russian  books. 
The  wind  of  the  steppes  blows  moaningly  through  them 
all.  Arina  Karenina  (New  York:  Crowell)  is  the  latest  of 
Tolstoi.  It  appears  before  the  end  of  War  and  Peace 
has  been  given  to  the  public.  Anna  Karenina  is  a 
panorama  of  Russian  life  shown  to  us  in  a melan- 
choly light.  It  is  a story  of  sinful  love  and  the  gradual 
degradation  of  a guilty  woman.  It  is  hopeless,  sad, 
true  evidently  to  Russian  life ; but  not  to  be  read, 
except  by  those  who  want  to  get  nearer  to  that  mys- 
terious and  semi-barbaric  people  who  will  yet  be  the 
Greeks  or  the  Goths  of  Europe.  Anna  Karlnina  is  the 
work  of  a close  student  of  human  nature  and  of  a literary 
artist,  more  robust  in  method  but  less  sure  and  exquisite 
than  Turgueneff.  It  is  a book  that  one  drops  with  deep 
sadness,  for  it  bears  on  every  page  the  traces  of  masterly 
talent  uninspired  by  one  hope  that  can  give  real  or  per- 
manent joy  to  life.  It  leaves  us  to  wonder  that  this  whole 
empty,  sad  Russian  society  does  not  commit  suicide. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


61 


Keenan  ; “ The  Aliens.” 

Trajan  appeared  anonymously  in  a defunct  New  York 
magazine.  It  was  followed  by  The  Money-Makers , written 
as  a kind  of  counter-irritant  to  The  Bread-  Winners. 
Neither  of  these  novels  was  of  a high  rank  as  a literary 
work.  The  Money-Makers  was  characterized  by  bad  taste, 
and  worn  French  words  and  phrases  quarrelled  with  the 
author’s  English  on  nearly  every  page.  The  Aliens  (New 
York:  D.  Appleton  & Co.)  is  announced  to  be  by  the 
hitherto  anonymous  author  of  Trajan.  It  is  stronger 
than  Trajan, , and  it  has  few  of  the  faults  of  bad  taste  that 
made  the  first  half  of  The  Money-Makers  unendurable. 
Mr.  Keenan  has  been  struck  with  the  opportunities  for  a 
good  work  of  fiction*  in  the  lives  of  Irish  immigrants. 
The  aliens  of  his  book  are  an  Irish  and  a German  fam- 
ily. The  Irish  father  has  what  the  French  call  the  faults 
of  his  qualities,  while  the  German  has  the  virtues  of  his. 
The  German  qualities — as  depicted  by  Mr.  Keenan — are 
lower  than  those  of  the  Irish,  but  much  more  capable  of 
furthering  success  in  life.  Hugh  Boyne  comes  to  Amer- 
ica with  his  wife  and  children.  His  wife  is  a beautiful 
woman,  a Catholic,  who  has  brought  her  husband,  a Prot- 
estant, into  the  church.  Hugh  has  brought  several  hun- 
dred pounds  sterling  from  Belfast.  But  the  temptation 
of  meeting  old  and  convivial  friends  is  too  much  for  him ; 
he  falls  lower  and  lower,  becomes  utterly  brutalized,  until 
his  wife  — Mr.  Keenan  makes  a natural  and  pathetic 
picture  of  her  agony  when  her  children  are  torn  from  her 
to  be  “ raised  ” by  strangers — dies  at  last  insane. 

Mr.  Keenan  has  shown  keen  insight  into  the  possibili- 
ties of  American  life  by  choosing  such  a subject;  he  has 
made  a good  deal  of  it.  The  Aliens  has  the  force,  of  sin- 
cerity and  truth.  But  there  are  some  strange  inequalities 
in  the  book.  Lady  Molly,  for  instance,  is  the  wife  of  an 


62 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


ex-Tory  lord  left  over  in  New  York  after  the  Revolution; 
she  is  an  Irish  lady,  but  she  habitually  uses  the  vulgarest 
brogue : 

“ ‘Sure,  you  ought  to  loike  the  juke  [Wellington],  Denny,  me 
lad  ; he  was  Irish  like  ourselves,  God  bless  him  ! ’ Lady  Molly  cried 
out  as  Lord  Poultney  gathered  breath  for  a fresh  flight. 

“ ‘Yes,  Denis,  Lord  Wellington’s  family  was  Irish,  and  some  of 
his  majesty’s  best  troops  came  from  Ireland.’ 

44  4 Ye  can’t  make  th’  Americans  believe  that,  then,’  cries  Lady 
Molly,  laughing  wickedly.  4 They  think  we’re  all  bog-trotters  and 
Rapparees,  bedad  ! ’”  “She  was  fond,”  adds  the  author,  in  artless 
admiration,  4<  of  her  most  piquant  Hibernicisms  when  talking  at  her 
own  table,  and  my  lord  encouraged  her  with  roars  of  laughter,  for  it 
was  one  of  the  merry  dame’s  charms  to  mimic  her  rural  countrymen.” 

Mr.  Keenan’s  regard  for  this  terrible  and  impossible 
female  amounts  to  positive  infatuation.  A bog-trotter 
or  a Rapparee  would  be  more  pleasant  company  than  the 
example  of  Irish  refinement  he  has  given  us.  Mr.  Kee- 
nan’s idea  of  the  Irish  character  is  expressed  in  this  para- 
graph: 

“ The  Celt  has  the  vanity  of  the  Gaul  : he  loves  to  love,  he 
loves  to  be  loved  ; he  loves  to  admire,  and  he  loves  to  be  admired. 
He  loves  to  be  praised,  first  for  his  wit,  if  he  have  any — if  not,  for 
his  strength  ; if  he  have  neither  of  these,  then  for  his  fidelity,  piety, 
or  any  of  the  more  admirable  traits  that  come  from  the  heart.  But  if 
he  have  none  of  these,  no  mental  or  moral  pre-eminence,  he  is  apt  to 
abandon  himself  with  imbecile  improvidence  to  any  dullard  tempta- 
tion. He  riots  in  the  excess  of  weakness.  Refused  the  lead  in  ad- 
mirable traits,  he  must  be  the  intrepid  law-breaker.  He  must  shame 
the  Ashantee  in  moral  squalor  when  there  is  no  play  in  his  wit  that 
extracts  praise.  Tiger  and  monkey,  Voltaire  called  his  countrymen 
the  Gaul.  Abdiel  and  Hecate,  the  Celt  might  be  summed  up.  None 
so  faithful  when  trust  is  given,  none  so  rancorous  when  doubt  is  in- 
stilled.” 

Generalizations  are  not  always  so  elastic.  There  are 
usually  a great  many  spots  over  which  they  cannot  stretch. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


63 


All  this  seems  to  mean  that  if  a Celt — an  Irishman,  Mr. 
Keenan  might  just  as  well  have  said — has  neither  mental 
nor  moral  good  qualities,  he  sinks  as  low  as  he  can.  In 
fact,  Mr.  Keenan  might  have  referred  to  mankind  in  gen- 
eral and  not  to  the  Celt  in  particular.  Hugh  Boyne  and 
his  children  are  scattered.  The  children  lose  the  mother’s 
faith.  Norah,  the  eldest  girl,  falls  a victim  to  her  attach- 
ment to  a libertine,  and  the  book  closes  sadly  and  sorrow- 
fully. The  only  consolation  we  are  given  is  that  the  Ger- 
man aliens  are  prominent  American  citizens  and  are  happy 
because  they  are  not  Celts. 

Miss  Tincker:  “Aurora. ” 

Aurora , Miss  Tincker’s  new  novel  (Philadelphia:  J.  B. 
Lippincott  & Co.),  is  not  up  to  the  high  mark  of  her  early 
work.  There  are  descriptive  passages  in  it  that  remind 
one,  in  their  delicacy  of  treatment  and  poetical  flavor,  of 
the  exquisite  opening  of  The  House  of  Yorke ; but  the 
present  novel  might  be  by  another  hand,  so  little  has  it 
of  the  freshness  and  elevation  of  that  incomparable  story. 

Hardy:  “The  Wind  of  Destiny.” 

Mr.  Hardy’s  But  Yet  a Woman  is  fresh  in  the  novel- 
reading mind,  which  may  be  said  to  be  the  popular  mind. 
Like  Mr.  F.  Marion  Crawford,  Mr.  Hardy  is  one  of  the 
fortunate  American  authors  that  are  sure  of  what  the 
French  call  a succes  T es time.  The  Wind  of  Destiny  (ex- 

quisitely printed  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  & Co.)  is  the  novel 
of  a pessimist.  Mr.  Hardy  opens  his  first  chapter  with  a 
quotation  from  that  diluted  Jew  and  false  philosopher, 
Spinoza:  “ They  who  believe  that  they  can  speak  or  keep 
silence — in  a word,  act — in  virtue  of  a free  decision  of 
the  soul,  dream  with  their  eyes  open.”  Destiny  is  blind 
force  which  fills  the  sails  of  human  barks  and  sends  them 


6 4 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


hither  and  thither;  some  think  that  a pilot  called  Will 
can  control  their  courses,  but  they  who  think  so  dream — 
this  is  the  teaching  of  Mr.  Hardy’s  novel,  if  it  is  meant  to 
have  any  teaching.  It  is  written  in  a style  almost  worthy 
of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne;  it  has  passages  of  the  finest 
poetry;  its  dialogue  is  terse,  clear-cut,  rapid,  and  apt — 
almost  too  clear-cut  and  apt  to  be  taken  from  real  life. 
One  cannot  read  it  without  acknowledging  the  talent  of 
the  author  or  without  asking,  To  what  end  has  this  talent 
been  employed  ? And  the  answer  is  not  satisfactory. 

We  are  introduced  to  Schonberg,  a mysterious  old  man 
living  in  a New  England  village  and  looked  on  with  dis- 
trust by  the  inhabitants,  and  the  reader  of  sensibility  is. 
interested  in  him  by  this  fine  passage : 

“ And  there  was,  in  truth,  in  his  nature  a solitary  summit  lifted 
above  mutation  and  tides.  Speculation  had  busied  itself  about  this 
man,  the  more  so  because  of  the  solitude  he  carried  with  him.  It  is 
not  necessary  to  have  taken  a city  to  excite  curiosity  or  to  become 
worthy  the  pen  of  the  biographer.  Biographer  ! One  can  almost 
see  his  eye  take  fire  at  the  word.  For  what  is  more  presumptuous 
than  to  write  the  history  of  a man?  Trace  the  red  and  the  black 
drops  to  the  veins  of  his  ancestors,  set  his  portrait  over  against  the 
title-page,  strand  him  in  a universe  of  self-seekers,  catalogue  his 
tastes,  describe  his  habits,  hoard  up  the  meagre  incidents- — after  all, 
the  man  escapes  you,  hid  within  that  zone  of  infinite  repulsion  which 
surrounds  the  soul  as  it  does  the  atom.” 

In  the  same  way  the  persons  buffeted  by  the  wind  of 
destiny  seem  to  escape  Mr.  Hardy,  who  is  their  bio- 
grapher. They  seem  to  exist,  but  we  see  them  through  a 
thickening  or  thinning  mist.  Aunt  Isabel,  a subordinate 
character,  a sophisticated  old  lady,  whose  manner  of  con- 
versation is  modelled  after  French  idioms,  is  the  most  real 
of  all.  Having  been  introduced  to  Schonberg,  we  are 
told  an  episode  of  his  youth  and  also  presented  to  Harold 
Fleming : 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  65 


“ Harold  was  an  enthusiast,  Schonberg  a neutral — intellectually, 
for  the  heart  always  takes  sides.  Harold  went  into  raptures  over  his 
master,  Schonberg  called  his  a philosophical  zero.  ‘You  and  1/  he 
said  one  day  contemptuously,  ‘ are  types  of  eclecticism.  I shall  per- 
ish like  the  donkey,  between  the  trough  and  the  manger,  of  starva- 
tion.’ ‘And  I?’ laughed  Harold.  ‘You?  You  will  take  the  best 
dish  from  every  table,  and  die  of  gluttony.’  ” 

Harold  marries  and  dies,  merely,  it  would  seem,  that 
Schonberg  shall  picturesquely  guard  his  friend’s  wife  and 
her  two  charming  daughters.  Harold’s  wife,  born  Made- 
Ion  Foy  in  a Breton  chateau,  dies  later  in  the  New  Eng- 
land village,  having  unconsciously  accepted  the  gift  of 
half  Schonberg’s  fortune,  in  the  belief  that  it  was  left  her 
by  her  husband.  Schonberg  proves  a faithful  guardian 
both  of  the  girls  and  a patch  of  violets  he  cultivates. 
The  violets  are  in  memory  of  a Breton  girl,  Noel,  who 
once  made  his  acquaintance  in  a boat,  met  him  in  a ruined 
chapel,  and  let  him  make  love  to  her  during  a holiday 
jaunt.  The  next  day  her  body  was  found  in  the  river. 
She  left  a message  for  Schonberg,  telling  him  that  only  by 
death  could  she  be  for  ever  his,  and  enclosing  some  white 
violets  for  him. 

“ ‘What  does  it  mean,  he  said  holding  the  message  out  to 
Father  Pierre.” 

“ A smile  of  satisfaction  lit  up  the  priest’s  face  as  he  read. 
4 Come  with  me,’  he  replied,  leading  the  way.  At  the  farther  angle 
of  the  wall  he  paused  before  a little  mound  scarce  two  feet  long,  re- 
mote from  the  rest,  but  carefully  kept  from  the  weeds.  ‘ Stoop  and 
read,’  he  said.  There  was  a single  word  on  the  plain  wooden  cross 
at  the  head  of  the  grave  : Noel. 

“ ‘ It  is  the  old  story,’  said  the  priest.  But  she  has  sprinkled 
herself  with  the  blood  of  the  sacrifice.  Let  God,  who  made  the  fal- 
cons, judge  the  dove.’  ” 

“Helen  of  Troy,”  moralizes  Mr.  Hardy  on  this  misty  episode, 
“ will  not  deter  us,  nor  the  wounds  of  Caesar  frighten,  nor  the  voice 
of  the  king,  crying  Vanity  ! from  his  throne,  dismav.  What  wonder 

3 


66 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


the  stars  that  once  sang  for  joy  are  dumb,  and  the  constellations  go 
down  in  silence  ? ” 

One  feels  like  asking,  with  Mr.  Hardy’s  hero,  “ What 
does  it  mean?  ” If  the  erratic  Noel  meant  that,  by  com- 
mitting suicide,  she  could  be  for  ever  with  Schonberg,  she 
certainly  paid  her  lover  of  a day  a very  poor  compliment. 
Did  Father  Pierre  think  of  this  when  he  smiled  on  such  a 
serious  occasion?  If  not,  why  did  he  smile?  Noel’s  con- 
duct to  Schonberg  was  of  the  indecorous  kind  disapproved 
by  all  parish  priests,  and  Father  Pierre  would  have  been 
more  likely  to  give  the  young  tourist  a plain  lecture  on 
morals  than  to  have  talked  about  “ sacrificial  blood.” 
“ Kismet!  ” is  the  very  unsatisfactory  and  unmeaning  an- 
swer. 

When  Schonberg  grows  old,  nursing  his  sentimental 
grief  and  his  violets,  he  meets  in  the  New  England  vil- 
lage Gladys  Temple  and  her  husband,  Jack.  Gladys  is 
a charming  young  woman,  who  has,  by  the  exercise  of  in- 
variable tact,  made  her  husband  love  her.  She  herself  is 
in  love  with  her  cousin  Rowan,  an  artist,  who  loves  one  of 
Schonberg’s  wards.  Gladys  is  mistress  of  all  the  minor 
arts  of  life.  She  can  eat  with  grace ; she  knows  how  to 
make  life  comfortable ; she  has  a pretty  little  daughter, 
Mabel,  who  goes  about  with  her  a great  deal ; she  goes 
to  church  when  she  thinks  people  expect  her  to  do  so,  and 
when  she  has  something  to  wear.  She  sees  Rowan’s 
preference  for  another,  and,  “ a toy  of  chance,”  she  lets 
herself  follow  him  on  a rainy  night  to  his  house.  He,  sur- 
prised and  shocked,  carries  her  home  and  enjoins  silence 
on  her  maid  to  save  her  from  the  effect  of  such  a compro- 
mising situation.  She  has  a fever.  The  maid  tells  the 
truth.  Jack  Temple  wishes  that  he  could  shoot  Rowan, 
who  has  been  the  innocent  cause  of  the  trouble,  and  goes 
away  in  his  yacht,  saying  that  Gladys  will  never  forgive 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


67 


herself.  Gladys,  on  her  sick-bed,  sees  remorsefully  the 
mistake  of  yielding  to  passion;  she  says  to  herself  that 
she  loves  Jack,  but  that  she  cannot  live  with  him  without 
self-respect.  The  devilish  lines  seem  to  hover  near  her : 

“Why,  if  the  soul  can  fling  the  dust  aside, 

And  naked  on  the  air  of  heaven  ride, 

Were  ’t  not  a shame,  were ’t  not  a shame,  for  him 
In  this  clay  carcase  crippled  to  abide?” 

“ She  had  time  to  cry,  to  see  Mabel’s  face,  to  struggle 
with  those  ponderous  doors  which  closed  upon  her,  to 
know  it  was  vain.”  The  waters  swallow  her.  Schonberg, 
dying,  cries  out  that  he  is  but  an  atom,  “ swept  on  by  its 
own  inertia,  and  disappearing  as  it  came,  a portent  and  a 
wonder.”  Noel  and  Gladys  have  been  swept  to  death, 
not  by  their  own  will,  but  by  the  wind  of  destiny;  the 
same  wind  has  blown  others  to  peace  and  happiness. 
“ Come,  little  girl,”  said  he,  “ let  us  go  to  sleep.” 

It  is  sad  that  the  manner  and  matter  of  this  novel,  so 
completely  charming  in  a literary  sense,  should  be  devoted 
to  such  a hopeless  philosophy  in  the  nineteenth  century 
after  the  birth  of  Christ.  Perhaps  Mr.  Hardy  believes, 
with  Goethe,  that  a man,  to  be  great,  must  echo  the 
thoughts  of  his  time ; or  perhaps  he  repeats  the  words  of 
one  of  his  personages : “ Of  what  use  is  it  to  paint  Ma- 
donnas which  no  one  buys?  cThe  artist  can  no  longer 
consecrate  himself  to  religious  symbolism.  The  age  in 
which  we  live  demands  realities,  not  emblems.’  ” 

And,  as  realities,  Mr.  Hardy  offers  us  the  life  of  a man 
who  lived  without  an  adequate  motive,  and  who  died  ex- 
pressing his  belief  in  a Supreme  Being,  because  the  wind 
of  destiny  pushed  him,  an  atom,  through  space ; and  that 
of  a woman  who  killed  herself  because  she  could  not  for- 
give herself  for  a crime  she  had  not  committed.  Realism 
in  romance  imposes  impartiality  on  the  author.  He  si’m- 


68 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


ply  sees  and  describes.  He  is  a photographic  instrument ; 
consequently  he  gives  us  soulless  forms,  highly  finished, 
but  unsatisfying  and  colorless. 

IX. 

Catholic  Stories. 

Some  clever  people,  whose  theories  fly  complacently 
over  facts,  insist  that  a good  Catholic  story  need  only  to 
be  written  to  be  read  with  avidity,  and  they  encourage 
with  hopeful  words  and  pleasant  promises  Catholics  to 
take  up  their  pens  and  to  write  novels.  They  preach  as 
if  an  immense  audience  were  waiting  to  crown  with  bays, 
to  name  in  honor,  and  to  confer  the  necessities  of  life  on 
the  author  who  would  write  a good  Catholic  story. 

Now,  The  House  of  Yorke  is  one  of  the  best  novels  ever 
printed  in  this  country.  It  is  a better  novel,  as  a work  of 
art  and  a work  of  fiction,  than  either  East  A?igels  or  The 
Wind  of  Destiny.  It  would  be  absurd  to  compare  Mr. 
Crawford’s  very  successful  Tale  of  a Lonely  Parish  with 
it,  so  inferior  is  Mr.  Crawford’s  latest  novel  to  it.  And 
yet  we  doubt  whether  five  copies  of  The  House  of  Yorke 
were  sold  to  every  thousand  of  the  three  other  books 
mentioned.  It  would  be  easy  to  compare  the  sale  of  Ben 
Hur  with  that  of  Dion  and  the  Sibyls , a Catholic  story  of 
the  highest  merit.  Ben  Hud s sale  mounts  up  every  year, 
while  there  is  scarcely  any  demand  for  Dion  and  even 
less  for  The  House  of  Yorke.  In  the  face  of  these  things 
it  is  idle  to  beckon  writers  to  their  doom — and  the  waste- 
paper  man.  This  cry  for  more  Catholic  novels  is  as  false 
as  the  demand  of  Gilder’s  little  poet: 

“ Give  me  a theme,”  the  little  poet  cried, 

“ And  I will  do  my  part.” 

“ ’Tis  not  a theme  you  need,”  the  world  replied  : 

“You  need  a heart.” 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  69 

There  are  themes  and  writers.  But  where  is  the  great 
heart  to  welcome  and  cherish  them? 

De  Navery:  “The  Castle  of  Coetquen.” 

In  the  meantime  young  Catholics  are  offered,  in  lieu  of 
the  fine  art  but  doubtful  teaching  of  novelists  who  are 
adepts  in  their  work,  The  Castle  of  Coetquen , translated 
from  the  French  of  Raoul  de  Navery,  and  printed  by 
M.  H.  Gill,  Dublin.  This  sensational  romance  has  al- 
ready appeared  here  under  the  name  of  Partira.  It  is 
full  of  murder,  revenge,  treachery,  death,  and  monsters  of 
all  kinds.  It  has  no  end,  and  one  sees  that  a sequel, 
equally  horrible,  is  impending.  Dungeons  and  hidden 
panels  suggest  to  us  the  Castle  of  Otranto  and  Mrs.  Rat- 
cliffe’s  delectable  romances  done  into  French  and  ten- 
derly sweetened  with  a pious  thought  when  the  resem- 
blance to  the  elder  Dumas  becomes  too  apparent.  The 
literary  merit  of  the  Castle  of  Coetquen  is  on  a par  with 
that  of  the  flashy  story-papers.  There  are  angelic  priests 
and  nuns  in  it,  however;  but  the  last  words  uttered  by 
Jenny  to  a virtuous  young  person  are: 

44  Don’t  cry.  We  have  a great  work  to  do.  Count  Florent 
must  pay  the  price  of  his  crime,  and  Blanche  of  Coetquen  must  be 
avenged  : for  this  work  we  are  two.” 

The  Castle  of  Coetquen  is  put  forth  as  a novel  for 
Catholics.  It  is  no  wonder  that  Catholics  are  shy  of  this 
sort  of  thing — fearing  that  they  i/iay  be  caught  with  chaff. 

Stevenson:  “ Prince  Otto.” 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  is  a novelist  who,  like  his 
American  brother,  the  author  of  The  Wind  of  Destiny , 
is  sure  to  have  success  with  a new  book,  whether  he  write 
well  or  ill.  His  Straiige  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  a7id  Mr.  Hyde , 
a weird  sketch  full  of  the  interest  and  power  that  have 


7o 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


caused  Edgar  Poe’s  short  stories  to  be  put  among  the 
masterpieces  of  French  as  well  as  English  literature,  is 
selling  rapidly  and  still  one  of  the  books  of  the  year. 
Prince  Otto : A Romance  (Boston : Roberts  Brothers) 
is  a satire  on  the  ways  of  princes  and  of  men.  Mr.  Stev- 
enson is  an  acknowledged  master  of  style,  versed  in  the 
art  of  reticence  and  suggestiveness;  his  “ lightness  of 
touch  ” — a quality  which  in  late  English  literature  almost 
becomes  a disease — makes  everything  he  writes  pleasant, 
even  if  it  have  no  other  merit.  Prince  Otto  is  the  story 
of  a ruler  who  neglects  the  business  of  his  dominions. 
Gondremark,  a would-be  Bismarck,  governs  them  for  him, 
with  one  eye  on  the  possibility  of  acquiring  them  himself 
by  warlike  diplomacy,  and  the  other  on  the  movements 
of  the  Masonic  lodges.  He  hopes  to  achieve  supreme 
power  in  Prince  Otto’s  kingdom  by  means  of  Masonic  in- 
trigues, with  which  he  has  silently  honeycombed  the  social 
fabric  of  Griinewald.  The  princess,  Otto’s  wife,  despises 
the  frivolity  and  weakness  of  her  husband;  her  ambition 
is  excited  by  Gondremark,  and  she  aims  to  govern  with 
the  help  of  the  prime  minister.  Gondremark  wants  only 
to  make  her  serve  his  schemes;  she,  while  profiting  by 
his  advice  and  experience,  is  never  unfaithful  to  the  weak 
and  pleasure-loving  prince,  who  finds  greater  delight  in 
the  flattery  of  court  ladies  than  in  doing  his  duty  to  his 
subjects.  While  wandering  incognito  the  prince  hears 
some  plain  truths  and  listens  to  popular  songs  about 
Gondremark  and  the  princess  that  fill  him  with  anger  and 
shame.  He  makes  a violent  attempt  to  assert  his  su- 
premacy in  the  state,  and  fails  through  his  very  violence. 
The  princess  takes  sides  with  Gondremark,  believing 
that  his  projects  can  alone  aggrandize  Griinewald.  But 
a crash  comes.  The  secret  societies,  whom  Gondremark 
had  fancied  were  forces  that  he  might  use,  suddenly  show 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


71 


in  open  daylight  the  badge  of  the  Phoenix  and  the  motto 
Libertas.  In  a night  the  little  princedom  becomes  a re- 
public, with  the  favorite  and  obsequious  servant  of  the 
princess,  who  has  been  one  of  the  prime  movers  in  the 
lodges,  in  an  important  place. 

This  is  the  barest  outline  of  a brilliant  sketch  almost 
Machiavellian  in  its  keenness.  It  is  really  a delicate  but 
exact  etching  of  social  and  political  life  copied  from  the 
big  historical  panorama  which  has  replaced  the  map  of 
Europe  before  the  eyes  of  the  world  since  Queen  Marie 
Antoinette  played  in  comedies  at  Versailles  and  Lafayette 
coquetted  with  the  “ secret  powers.”  The  scene  in  the 
council-chamber  when  Prince  Otto  asserts  his  rights  is 
managed  with  consummate  skill  and  with  entire  fidelity  to 
the  character  given  by  Mr.  Stevenson  to  the  faineant  ruler 
of  Griinewald.  Throughout  the  story  there  is  an  air  of 
the  delicate  mockery  and  nineteenth-century  cynicism 
which  permeate  Gilbert’s  comedies,  but  more  evanescent 
and  less  “ humorous.”  Mr.  Stevenson  might  have  spared 
us  one  sentence,  in  deference  to  that  cult  of  good  taste 
of  which  he  is  a foremost  acolyte : 

“ Under  ordinary  circumstances  the  scene  at  the  council-table 
would  have  entirely  exhausted  Otto’s  store  both  of  energy  and  anger; 
he  would  have  begun  to  examine  and  condemn  his  conduct,  have  re- 
membered all  that  was  true,  forgotten  all  that  was  just  in  Seraphina’s 
onslaught ; and  by  half  an  hour  after  would  have  fallen  into  that  state 
of  mind  in  which  a Catholic  flees  to  the  confessional  and  a sot  takes 
refuge  with  the  bottle.” 

Mr.  Stevenson’s  characterization  of  a Catholic  state  of 
mind  is  almost  enough  to  cause  us  to  doubt  the  truth  of 
his  minute  analyses  of  other  psychical  states.  There  are 
one  or  two  passages  which  produce  the  effect  that  the 
love-making  of  the  American  theatre  had  on  the  old  French 
lady  accustomed  to  Racine  and  Corneille : they  make  us 


72 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


wonder  why  Mr.  Stevenson,  with  all  the  poetic  license  of 
a prose-poet,  should  have  made  them  public.  One  of  the 
best  chapters  in  the  book  is  that  which  is  made  up  of  Sir 
John  Crabtree’s  memoir  of  aristocracy  in  Griinewald. 
Looking  from  the  picture  made  by  the  English  tourist  to 
the  reality,  we  are  struck  by  the  fact  that  even  a journal- 
ist may  sometimes  be  guilty  of  rash  judgment.  In  the 
end  the  prince,  the  princess,  and  Gondremark  are  blown 
up  by  the  political  explosion  of  the  secret  societies.  But 
they  land  on  their  feet,  and  the  prince  and  princess  find 
that  they  are  better  fitted  to  be  private  citizens  than  to 
rule  a kingdom. 

Vernon  Lee:  “ Juvenilia.” 

Vernon’s  Lee’s  Juvenilia:  Being  a series  of  Essays  on 
Sundry  NEsthetical  Questions  (London:  T.  Fisher  Unwin) 
is  probably  the  kind  of  book  that  our  own  Miss  Augusta 
Evans  might  have  written,  if,  in  the  days  when  young 
ladies  raved  about  St.  Elmo , “ culture  ” and  “ aestheticism  ” 
were  fashionable ; only  Miss  Evans  would  not  have  posed 
as  an  Agnostic.  Both  Miss  Vernon  Lee’s  Agnosticism 
and  her  aestheticism  are  palpably  artificial.  She  has  a 
rush  of  ideas  to  the  head ; and  one  idea  frequently  crush- 
es the  other  in  its  haste  to  escape.  She  looks  down  the 
ages,  and  from  the  height  of  her  Agnostic  pulpit  discovers 
great  things  for  an  impatient  world.  Her  one  character- 
istic is  to  pump  up  verbal  enthusiasm  on  obscure  and 
sometimes  worthless  subjects.  To  adopt  a forcible  meta- 
phor borrowed  from  Mr.  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  in  describ- 
ing a modern  aesthetic  tendency,  she  “ looks  for  rusty  nails 
in  barnyard  rubbish  and  spends  a life  in  burnishing 
them.”  Her  essays  are  written  to  enlighten  a youth 
named  Carlo,  who  personifies,  no  doubt,  the  young  pub- 
lic. On  this  unhappy  being  she  pours  an  endless  flood  of 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


73 


fine-sounding  words.  Carlo  probably  has  sense  enough 
to  know  that  his  teacher  is  a poseuse , and  not  even  an  ac- 
complished one.  Her  affectation  of  pretending  to  be- 
lieve that  real  greatness  of  mind  and  pure  and  true  love 
and  strength  for  the  work  of  life  are  to  be  found  in  Ag- 
nosticism and  the  keeping  of  men  in  a “ renaissance  state 
of  soul,”  is  too  palpable  for  any  modern  youth  to  accept 
as  genuine.  She  strives  after  the  unusual.  Of  course  she 
has  a cultus  for  Botticelli.  Of  course  Baudelaire  and 
Villon  and  other  poets,  having  much  nastiness  in  their 
works,  and  therefore  dear  to  what  is  left  of  the  “ aesthetic  ” 
school,  float  through  her  pages.  In  order  to  be  unusual 
she  sneers  at  Shakespeare  and  incenses  Goethe  and  Schil- 
ler. Her  reasons  for  this  show  how  shallow  this  teacher’s 
thought  and  reading  are.  They  are  as  absurd  as  those 
which  induced  Voltaire  to  call  Hamlet  “ a drunken  sav- 
age:” 

“ I do  not  believe,”  she  says,  (l  that  Hamlet,  such  as  Shakspere 
wrote  him  (as  distinguished  from  Hamlet  such  as  we  read  him),  is  as 
realistically  conceived,  as  realistically  carried  out,  as  Schiller’s  Don 
Carlos,  much  less  as  Goethe’s  Tasso  ; nor  are  Romeo  and  Juliet 
realized  like  Faust  and  Gretchen,  Egmont  and  Clarchen,  Max  and 
Thekla.” 

This  “ I ” that  demolishes  the  edifices  of  centuries,  that 
blows  Christianity  aside  more  in  sorrow  than  anger,  that 
analyzes  what  it  is  ignorant  of,  is  thoroughly  typical  of 
the  spirit  which,  in  order  to  assume  to  be  learned,  avoids 
the  great  highways  and  searches  in  alleys  and  corners  for 
bric-a-brac  that  it  at  once  demands  the  world  shall  en- 
shrine. 

Lord  Lytton:  “ Baldine.” 

While  young  people  of  this  generation  who  have  just 
learned  to  read  follow  sympathetically  the  adventures  of 


74 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


Glaucus  and  Nydia,  and  delight  in  The  Caxtons , the  cre- 
ator of  these  charming  myths  is  made  the  subject  of  an 
unpleasant  book,  supposed  to  be  founded  on  the  letters 
of  his  wife,  Lady  Bulwer,  which  destroys  some  illusions  in 
regard  to  Lord  Lytton’s  honest  belief  in  the  Good,  the 
Beautiful,  and  the  True.  After  all,  “ his  worst  he  kept,  his 
best  he  gave,”  and  such  revelations  ought  not  to  be  en- 
couraged. His  son,  the  present  Lord  Lytton — who  must 
be  in  an  unenviable  state  of  mind  to  have  to  choose  be- 
tween his  mothers  statement  that  his  father  was  a brute, 
or  the  other  view  that  his  mother  was  a shrew  with  a ten- 
dency to  “ exaggeration  ” — has  translated  from  the  Ger- 
man Karl  Erdmann  Edler’s  Baldine  and  other  Stories  (New 
York:  Harper  & Bros.)  Carlyle,  according  to  Lord  Lyt- 
ton, over-praised  some  German  novelists — Dii  Minores — 
and  neglected  others.  Lord  Lytton,  in  introducing  Edler, 
intends  to  repair  this  injustice.  His  preface  is  admirably 
written,  and  is  remarkable  for  one  quality  unusual  in 
modern  literature — sincere  enthusiasm.  He  honestly  be- 
lieves that  Edler  is  an  exquisite  writer  of  idyls  that  are 
intensely  individual  and  original,  and  he  says  so  in  a short 
essay  full  of  intimate  knowledge  of  Germany  and  Ger- 
man literature. 

“ Baldine,”  the  first  of  the  three  stories  in  the  book, 
opens  in  a forest.  Baldine  is  an  orphan  left  by  her  grand- 
father in  the  care  of  an  old  deaf  woman.  The  child  plays 
alone  and  in  silence ; she  learns  to  throw  aside  for  ever 
all  things  that  disappoint  her  once.  Her  doll,  her  ball, 
and  the  doctor,  who  cannot  save  her  grandfather  from 
death,  are  cast  away  with  hatred  and  distrust.  But  she 
still  trusts  in  One: 

“ The  ants,  the  snails,  the  butterflies,  and  all  the  dumb  creatures 
are  sometimes  glad  and  sometimes  sorry  ; and  they  all  have  fine 
threads  on  their  heads,  with  which  they  speak  without  a word,  as 
Zenz  speaks  with  her  fingers.  Baldine  knows  ail  this  quite  well. 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


75 


“ But  at  home  she  knows  One  who  is  also  dumb,  but  never  glad, 
always  sorry.  That  is  our  Lord  God,  who  hangs  upon  the  cross  in 
the  corner  of  the  room,  high  above  the  table.  The  cross  is  of  black 
wood,  and  fastened  to  it  is  the  white  God.  He  cannot  even  speak 
with  his  fingers,  for  both  hands  are  nailed  to  the  cross.  The  drops 
of  blood  run  down  over  his  forehead  and  breast,  from  his  hands  and 
feet.  His  face  is  very  pale  and  mournful ; one  cannot  look  at  him 
without  weeping. 

“ Once  Baldine  climbed  upon  a chair  and  thence  on  to  the  table 
to  look  him  closely  ; but,  when  quite  near,  he  looked  even  still 
more  mournful.  Then  Baldine  leaned  her  cheek  against  his  bleeding 
• arm,  as  at  other  times  she  used  to  lean  it  against  the  grandfather’s 
coat-sleeve,  and  wept.  She  stroked  the  pale,  worn  cheeks,  and  said 
through  her  sobs  : 

“ ‘ Poor  God  ! be  not  so  sad,  dear  God  !’ 

“ But  he  remained  still  as  sad  as  ever  and  did  not  smile,  as  her 
grandfather  always  did  when  she  stroked  his  sleeve.  Then  she  grew 
angry  at  the  nails  which  hurt  his  hands  and  feet ; and  she  tore  and 
tugged  at  them  till  her  cheeks  were  glowing,  her  curls  all  tumbled, 
and  her  little  fingers  bleeding.  The  grandfather  before  his  death 
once  found  her  in  this  condition.” 

Baldine  grows  up  and  goes  to  live  at  the  miller’s.  She 
sits  on  Sundays  and  prays  near  the  “ dead-planks  ” on 
which  her  grandfather  and  the  old  woman,  her  friend, 
were  laid.  Church  and  churchyard  are  so  far  away  that 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  reach  them  through  the  snow- 
laden mountain-paths.  The  bodies  of  the  dead  are  laid 
on  planks  until  carried  to  their  resting-place.  The  vil- 
lagers cannot  go  often  to  the  churchyard,  so  the  “ dead- 
planks  ” are  put  against  beech-trees  in  the  forest  as  re- 
membrances that  the  dead  need  prayers: 

“ The  poor  souls,  say  the  folk  of  the  forest,  suffer  in  purgatory 
just  so  long  as  upon  earth  their  dead-planks  stand  ; but  the  planks  of 
the  rich  last  longest,  for  the  paint  upon  them  retards  the  progress  of 
their  decay.” 

Baldine  becomes  known  as  the  beauty  of  the  village, 
and  her  voice  develops  remarkably.  Some  Italians  come 


76 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


to  the  forest  to  work.  Among  them  are  Toniello  and 
Beppo.  Beppo  admires  Baldine,  and,  being  bad  at  heart, 
hates  Toniello,  whom  Baldine  promises  to  marry,  though 
he  knows  no  German  and  she  no  Italian.  All  is  arranged 
for  the  marriage,  when  Toniello  is  brought  home  dying 
through  Beppo’s  plotting. 

Baldine  prays  frantically  before  the  crucifix  for  the  life 
of  Toniello.  But  the  priest  begins  the  prayers  for  the 
dying. 

“ Toniellc  was  dead. 

“ Once  again  that  dreadful  cry  ! 

“ And  then,  after  a painful  silence  which  no  one  dared  to  break, 
Baldine  rose,  with  tearless  eyes  and  a bitter,  disdainful  smile  upon 
her  lips.  All  the  melancholy  softness  of  her  features  was  turned  into 
the  hardness  of  frozen  ice. 

4<  She  deliberately  lifted  the  crucifix  high  above  her  head  and 
dashed  it  against  the  wall,  from  which  the  broken  wood  flew  splint- 
ered in  all  directions.” 

Baldine  has  been  disappointed  by  God,  therefore  she 
no  longer  believes  in  God.  This  is  a strange  and  horrible 
climax.  So  far  the  story  has  been  told  with  the  quaint- 
ness and  simplicity  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen,  though 
at  times  Edler  has  the  bad  taste  to  interject  some  sophis- 
ticated remark  showing  himself  superior  to  the  villagers 
he  writes  about.  But  now  comes  an  anti-climax  scarcely 
justifying  Lord  Lytton’s  praise  of  him.  Baldine  becomes 
a famous  opera-singer.  Toniello’s  foster-brother,  a count, 
offers  to  marry  her.  The  count  is  a devout  Catholic ; 
Baldine  tells  him  she  has  no  belief  and  that  she  does  not 
love  him.  They  marry,  however.  A child  is  born,  but 
she  does  not  change.  One  day  the  angel  of  death  threat- 
ens the  child.  Then  follows  fearful  suspense.  At  last  the 
child  is  declared  out  of  danger.  Then  Baldine  says  to 
the  count: 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


77 


“ ‘I  love  you,  Gaetano!  I love  you  very  dearly  and  deeply, 
only  I did  not  know  it/ 

“ And  then  her  hand  glides  again  caressingly  across  his  arm. 

“ ‘Go  now/ she  murmurs,  ‘to  our  child,  Gaetano!  Embrace 
for  me  the  good  Dottore  Corri,  as  well  as  the  other  physician.  I 
will  follow  you,  but  let  me  linger  here  a moment.  I wish  first  to 
pray,  Gaetano — to  pray  to  your  God  ! ’ 

“ He  looses  his  embrace  and  goes  to  the  rescued  child. 

“ Above  the  prie-dien  hangs  the  dumb  God  upon  the  cross,  mute 
and  sad. 

“ The  sunbeam  falls  upon  the  stooping  face  of  the  dumb  God 
and  on  the  upturned  forehead  of  the  woman,  whose  hands  are 
stretched  out  to  him  in  prayer.  The  blood-drops  on  the  brow  of  the 
divine  image  glow  like  kingly  rubies,  and  the  tear-drops  falling  from 
the  woman’s  eyes  shine  pure  as  orient  pearls  in  the  beam  that  has 
kindled  both. 

“And  around  these  two  silent  figures  the  dawn  grows  slowly 
brighter.” 

This  is  temporarily  satisfactory  as  an  ending.  But  what 
if  Baldine  should  suffer  another  affliction  and  feel  that 
God  had  again  disappointed  her?  Would  she  break  her 
new  crucifix?  Religion  introduced  into  stories  for  dra- 
matic effect  is  generally  a mistake.  Neither  religion  nor 
the  story  is  helped  by  it.  Lord  Lytton’s  literary  instinct 
is  true  in  the  choosing  of  “ Baldine  ” as  an  unusually  well- 
written  story.  Edler’s  artistic  treatment  of  his  theme  in 
a small  space  might  serve  as  a model  for  some  of  the 
lumbering,  expansive  English  novelists.  “Notre  Dame 
des  Flots  ” is  a very  sad  story  of  the  sufferings  of  a wife 
who,  even  in  death,  was  denied  the  love  of  the  daughter 
for  whom  she  had  struggled  and  suffered.  But  there  is 
no  bitterness  in  it.  And  in  these  stories,  as  well  as  in  the 
slighter  sketch,  “A  Journey  to  the  Grossglockner,”  the 
elevating  influence  of  the  Catholic  faith  and  the  supremacy 
of  virtue  over  vice  are  ungrudgingly  admitted — more, 
perhaps,  as  facts  which  a true  artist  must  express  than 
with  extraordinary  sympathy  with  them. 


78 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS 


X. 

Miss  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps’s  The  Gates  Betiveeii  (Bos- 
ton and  New  York:  Houghton,  Mifflin  & Co.)  will  hardly 
have  the  popularity  of  her  Gates  Ajar , by  which  it  has  no 
doubt  been  suggested.  It  is  the  record  of  a man’s  exist- 
ence after  death.  Dr.  Esmerald  Thorne  marries,  late  in 
life,  an  excellent  woman.  He  is  a very  busy  and  irritable 
man.  He  became  “ uncontrollably  angry  ” at  times,  with- 
out thinking  that  he  had  “ no  more  right  to  do  so  than  to 
get  drunk.”  Dr.  Thorne  enters  his  house  one  night  in  an 
unusually  bad  humor.  The  prelude  to  the  “taking  off” 
which  left  him  “ between  the  gates,”  in  a very  uncomfor- 
table and  unsatisfactory  position,  is  this  speech : 

“ ‘ I am  due  at  the  hospital  in  twenty-five  minutes,’  I went  on 
excitedly.  ‘ Chirurgeon  is  behaving  like  Apollyon.  If  I’m  not  there 
to  handle  him  nobody  will.  The  whole  staff  are  afraid  of  him — every- 
body but  me.  We  sha’n’t  get  the  new  ward  built  these  two  years  if 
he  carries  the  day  to-night.  I’ve  got  a consultation  at  Decker’s — the 
old  lady  is  dying.  Chowder  ? I wish  you’d  had  a good,  clear  soup. 
I don’t  feel  as  if  I could  touch  chowder.  I hope  you  have  some  roast 
beef  better  than  the  last.  You  mustn’t  let  Parsnip  cheat  you. 
Quail  ? There’s  no  nourishment  in  a quail  for  a man  in  my  state. 
The  gas  leaks.  Can’t  you  have  it  attended  to  ? Hurry  up  the  coffee! 
I must  swallow  it  and  go.  I’ve  got  more  than  ten  men  could  do.’  ” 

By  way  of  an  excuse  for  this  irritation  we  are  told  that 
Dr.  Thorne  had  that  day  lost  ten  thousand  dollars,  that 
his  boots  were  wet,  and  that  his  child  was  teething.  To 
/ add  fuel  to  the  flame,  his  wife  behaves  with  exasperating 
humility.  Dr.  Thorne  leaves,  declaring  that  he  ought 
not  to  have  married  at  all,  or  married  a woman  with  a 
little  wifely  spirit.  Then  he  goes  away,  half  turning  back 
with  a touch  of  remorse ; but  his  horse  is  restless,  and  he 
dashes  off.  The  horse  runs  away  with  him ; he  is  thrown 
out  of  his  carriage  and  killed.  But,  nevertheless,  he  tells 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


79 


his  story.  After  the  accident  “ a young  priest  passed  by, 
saying  an  Ave  with  moving  lips  and  unworldly  eyes.” 
The  late  doctor,  who,  during  his  mad  career  in  the  car- 
riage, has  run  into  a landau  occupied  by  a lady  and  a 
child,  asks  whether  they  have  been  injured.  “Nay,”  he 
said,  gazing  at  me  with  a luminous  look — cnay,  I see 
nothing.’  After  an  instant’s  hesitation  the  priest  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross  both  upon  himself  and  me,  and  then 
stretched  his  hands  in  blessing  over  me,  and  silently  went 
his  way.  I thought  this  very  kind  of  him,  and  I bowed 
as  we  parted,  saying  aloud,  c Thank  you,  father ; ’ for  my 
heart  was  touched,  despite  myself,  at  the  manner  of  the 
young  devotee.” 

Dr.  Thorne  had  been  somewhat  of  a materialist  in  life, 
consequently  he  is  made  to  hover  among  the  money^getters. 
But  gradually  he  gets  into  better  company.  He  meets  a 
devout  soul,  one  of  his  former  patients,  who  is  happy  in 
this  intermediate  state,  while  he  is  tormented  and  miser- 
able; but  this  soul  had  faith,  and  he  had  not.  After  a 
time  he  enters  a community  of  spirits  who  wait  with  the 
utmost  joy  for  the  coming  of  the  Lord  of  love,  and  the 
doctor  is  joined  by  his  little  boy,  who  has  died  on  earth. 
The  doctor,  when  this  shining  Presence  comes,  does  not 
see  it.  He  has  been  blind  on  earth,  and  he  is  blind  still. 
The  little  child  hears  the  spirits  in  probation  singing  the 
song  of  faith.  “ I cannot  sing  that  pretty  song,”  said  the 
boy  sadly.  ‘There  is  nobody  to  teach  me.  Father,  I 
wish  you  were  a learned  man.’  Now  this  smote  me  to  the 
heart,  so  that  I would  even  have  lifted  my  voice  and 
sought  to  join  the  chant  for  the  child’s  sake  and  to  com- 
fort him ; but  when  I would  have  done  so,  behold  I could 
not  lift  my  soul ; it  resisted  me  like  a weight  too  heavy 
for  my  lips,  for  in  this  land  song  never  rises  higher  than 
the  soul.” 


8o 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


At  last  the  sceptic  cries  out,  “ Thou  great  God,  if  there 
be  a God,  reveal  thyself  unto  my  immortal  soul,  if  I have 
a soul  immortal.”  His  wife  joins  him,  and  the  united 
family  praise  Almighty  God  between  the  gates  of  earth 
and  heaven. 

There  are  incongruities  m this  book,  some  theatricali- 
ties of  style ; but  it  is  a very  pathetic  book  and  a very 
womanly  book.  No  Catholic  can  see  this  attempt  to  probe 
the  secrets  of  “probation”  without  a sigh  and  an  earnest 
prayer  that  the  writer’s  groping  after  truth  may  be  fully 
answered  in  this  world. 

Besant:  “Katharine  Regina. 

Katharine  Regina , by  Walter  Besant  (New  York:  Har- 
per & Bros.),  and  Miser  Fairbr other,  by  B.  L.  Farjeon, 
same  publishers,  are  sure  of  a large  sale.  Besant  is  a 
favorite  just  now,  because  he  persuades  his  readers  that 
in  following  his  characters  they  are  helping  along  a great 
reform  in  the  lives  of  the  working-people  of  London.  Mr. 
Besant  is  a humanitarian;  he  thinks  that  people  can  be 
made  and  kept  good  by  clean  rooms,  fresh  air,  baths, 
good  music,  and  innocent  amusements.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  the  horrible  crowding,  the  lack  of  any  substi- 
tute for  the  pleasures  of  the  gin-shop  or  of  the  beer-saloon, 
the  monotonous  toil  of  the  poor  in  large  cities,  affect  them 
and  their  children  as  the  absence  of  sunshine  affects  plants. 
There  are  sins  to  which  the  penury  of  the  poor  makes 
temptation  easy,  But  Mr.  Besant’s  plans  for  a large 
pleasure-palace  for  working  men  and  women,  and  for  the 
securing  of  fresh  air,  comfortable  rooms,  and  rational 
amusements  for  them,  would  prove  abortive  if  directed 
only  by  the  “ religion  of  humanity.”  The  impression  one 
gets  from  Mr.  Besant’s  novels  is  that  he,  a man  of  heart 
and  talent,  kindly  takes  care  of  the  people  whom  God 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NO  VEIN  STS. 


81 


forgets!  God,  if  recognized  at  all,- is  always  a long  dis- 
tance away  in  Mr.  Besant’s  schemes.  He  and  his  people 
are  expert  in  the  art  of  helping  themselves,  and,  if  they 
have  any  time  to  spare,  they  are  willing  to  help  God  in 
managing  the  world!  In  Katharine  Regina , as  in  All 
Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men,  the  problem  of  providing  bet- 
ter homes  for  working-girls  is  considered.  Mr.  Besant  is 
dissatisfied  with  institutions  such  as  the  late  Mr.  Stewart 
planned  for  them.  He  thinks  they  ought  to  be  allowed 
to  receive  young  men  in  the  evenings.  From  all  this  we 
gather  that  Mr.  Besant  has  nothing  better,  in  spite  of  all 
his  elaborate  and  interesting  writing  on  the  subject,  to 
offer  than  the  old  plan  of  providing  for  lonely  girls — that 
is,  by  marriage. 

Mr.  Besant  is  a keen  observer,  and  his  sympathy  is  al- 
ways alert  for  the  sufferings  of  the  London  poor.  He 
shows  that  no  creature  is  so  helpless  as  a young  girl  of 
good  principles  cast  on  the  world  without  preparation  for 
the  battle  of  life.  Katharine  tries  to  be  a governess. 
The  market  is  over-crowded;  she  loses  her  place  and 
comes  very  near  to  despair  and  death,  when  she  is  saved 
by  the  return  of  her  lover  and  marriage.  Mr.  Besant  does 
well  to  point  out  the  ulcers  at  the  root  of  a social  system 
which  substitutes  selfishness  for  Christian  charity,  which 
helps  Dives  to  ignore  Lazarus  by  teaching  him  that  a 
machine-like  system  of  alms-giving  may  quiet  his  con- 
science. But  Mr.  Besant  would  do  well  to  remember  that 
the  elevation  that  may  come  from  clean  and  well-venti- 
lated rooms  and  popular  concerts  cannot  reach  much  be- 
yond the  surface.  It  is  foolish  to  teach  the  mass  of  people 
that  amusements  and  luxuries  should  be  some  of  the  ob- 
jects of  life,  and  these  things  belong  of  right  to  them. 
Mr.  Besant  seems  to  follow  Mr.  John  Bright  in  this  abor- 
tive and  dangerous  teaching.  Mr.  Besant,  in  Katherine 


8 2 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


Regina , shows  in  the  character  of  the  young  German, 
Dittmer,  two  of  the  remedies  which  must  be  internally 
applied — and  by  themselves — to  the  great  mass  of  men 
to-day  before  they  can  begin  to  feel  that  poverty  may  be 
made  endurable.  These  remedies  are  persistent  indus- 
try and  frugality.  The  young  German  is  poor,  yet  he 
does  not  suffer;  he  is  hopeful;  he  enjoys  a moderate 
amount  of  play  after  his  work.  If  many  of  our  young 
American  clerks  who  see  no  “ futhre  ” before  them  had 
the  self-denial  to  appreciate  these  remedies,  there  would 
be  more  happiness  among  them. 

“ 1 I have  learnt  what  I could — mathematics,  languages,  book- 
keeping, short-hand,  physical  geography,  commercial  and  political 
history,  and  the  present  condition  of  trade  over  all  the  world.  I 
know  every  harbor  and  its  exports  and  imports,  and  the  principal 
merchants  who  carry  on  its  trade. 

‘ ‘ 6 Modern  trade  wants  all  this  knowledge.  There  will  very 
soon  be  no  more  English  merchants,  because  our  young  men  will  not 
learn  the  new  conditions  of  trade.  In  every  office  there  must  be 
clerks  who  can  write  and  speak  foreign  languages.  Your  young  men 
will  not  learn  them,  and  your  schools  cannot  teach  them.  Then  we 
come  over — we  who  have  learned  them.  For  my  part,  I can  write 
and  read  English,  Swedish,  Danish,  French,  Spanish,  Italian,  Dutch, 
and  German.  Do  you  think  we  shall  be  content  to  stay  here  as 
clerks?  No,  no.  Do  you  think  that  I have  come  here  to  sit  down 
with  forty  pounds  a year?  We  are  cheap,  we  German  clerks.  You 
say  so.  Mein  Gott  ! you  will  find  us  dear.  We  are  learning  your 
trade : we  find  out  your  customers  and  your  correspondents  ; we 
learn  your  profits,  and  we  undersell  you.  We  do  not  go  away.  We 
remain.  And  presently,  instead  of  an  English  house,  there  will  be  a 
German  house  in  its  place,  because  your  young  men  are  so  stupid 
that  they  will  not  learn. 

“ ‘ I study  English  commerce — I study  how  it  began  and  why 
it  is  now  coming  to  an  end.  The  English  clerk  will  not  learn  any- 
thing, and  expects  to  be  paid  like  an  Amstrichter  at  least.  In  Deutsch- 
land we  learn,  and  we  are  poor  at  first.  Ja  wohl ! we  are  poor, 
but  we  can  wait.  It  is  your  high  salaries  in  your  army,  in  your  navy, 
in  your  church,  in  your  trade,  in  your  administration,  which  ruin  Great 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


83 


Britain.  Everywhere  the  German  merchant  drives  out  the  English- 
man and  the  American  ; your  commerce  goes  out  of  your  hands  ; for 
the  moment  only  it  remains  in  London,  thanks  to  the  Germans  and 
the  Jews.  When  we  have  taken  Antwerp  L will  all  go  there — all — 
and  where  will  be  your  London  then?  All — all  shall  be  Deutsch.’  ” 

x Dittmer  here  puts  his  finger  on  some  truths  that  Ameri- 
cans, as  well  as  Englishmen,  are  learning,  and  will  fully 
learn  when  it  is  too  late.  Katharine  Regina , as  a novel, 
is  not  worth  much.  As  a suggestive  essay  on  a great 
social  question  it  has  value. 

Farjeon:  “ Miser  Farebrother.,, 

Mr.  Farjeon  gained  his  reputation  by  a supposed  resem- 
blance to  Dickens.  If  this  ever  existed  it  has  now  entirely 
disappeared.  Miser  Farebrother  has  no  depth  of  any 
kind.  It  is  a crude  story,  whose  personages  seem  to  be 
painted  mechanically  on  a hard,  flat  surface.  There  is 
the  distractingly  amiable  young  woman,  who  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  an  utterly  bad  old  man,  the  villainous  and  doting 
mother  of  an  evil  and  ungrateful  son,  the  perfect  young 
man,  the  murder,  the  trial  of  the  wrong  person,  the  ac- 
quittal, and  the  death  of  the  wicked  people.  The  rest 
can  easily  be  supplied  by  any  reader  of  novels. 

The  author  of  St.  Elmo , Mrs.  Augusta  Evans  Wilson, 
was  once  the  most  popular  of  American  novelists.  But 
this  was  about  the  time  of  the  war.  Then  St.  Elmo  was 
a frequent  subject  of  conversation  and  admiration  among 
young  ladies.  If  there  are  ladies  now  alive  who  read  St. 
Elmo  when  it  first  came  out,  it  may  edify  them  to  verify 
the  impressions  of  their  youth  by  means  of  At  the  Mercy 
of  Tiberius , Mrs.  Evans  Wilson’s  latest  book.  It  was, 
perhaps,  in  St.  Elmo , that  the  world  was  told  that  “ man 
is  a limitless  microcosm.”  At  any  rate,  there  were  many 
similarly  fine  sayings  in  it,  and  there  are  many  more  fine 


84 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


sayings  in  At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius.  But  we  are  anxious 
to  know  whether  the  young  ladies  of  1863,  who  are  now 
the  young  ladies  of  1888 — for  nobody  ever  really  grows 
old — will  find  the  satisfaction  in  this  new  book  which  they 
found  in  the  other?  We  fear  not;  for  Helen  Mar  in  the 
Scottish  Chiefs , and  even  Catharine  Seton  in  The  Abbot \ 
are  in  1888  not  what  they  were  in  1863.  We  are  the 
same,  of  course,  but  the  books  have  somehow  changed. 

Wilson  (Augusta  Evans):  “At  the  Mercy  of 
Tiberius.” 

At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius  is  not  a story  of  ancient  Rome. 
It  is  a tale  of  Ancient  and  Modern  Nowhere.  The  people 
in  it  are  supposed  to  live  in  one  of  the  Southern  States. 
Beryl  is  the  heroine’s  name.  Her  mother  has  been  dis- 
owned by  her  proud  father  because  she  married  a foreigner 
named  Ignace  Brentano.  Beryl  supports  her  by  making 
sketches  and  painting  Christmas  cards.  But  Beryl  re- 
solves to  meet  her  grandfather  and  to  wrest  some  money, 
badly  needed  by  her  mother,  from  him.  They  meet. 
They  are  well  matched.  Their  vocabulary  is  limitless. 
He  begins: 

“ ‘Are  you  some  exiled  goddess  travelling  incognito  T [in  other 
days  Mrs.  Evans  Wilson  would  have  written  incognita — or  are  we 
more  critical  now?]  ‘If  we  lived  in  the  “piping  days  of  Pan,”  I 
should  flatter  myself  that  ‘‘ox-eyed  Juno”  had  honored  me  with  a 
call  as  a reward  of  my  care  of  her  favorite  bird.’  ” 

When  the  proud  general  finds  out  who  she  is  he  stares 
<catthe  majestic  form  and  the  faultless  face  looking  so 
proudly  down  upon  him  as  from  an  inaccessible  height,” 
and  he  draws  his  breath  “ with  a labored,  hissing  sound.” 
“A  stranger,”  she  cries,  “but  a lady,  every  inch.  I de- 
mand the  respect  due  from  a gentleman.”  For  a mo- 
ment they  eye  each  other  “ as  gladiators  awaiting  the  sigr 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


85 


nal;”  then  General  Darrington  springs  up,  and  “with  a 
bow,  stately  and  profound  as  if  made  to  a duchess,”  he 
replies,  “And  in  the  name  of  Southern  chivalry,  I swear 
you  shall  receive  it.”  She  “ begins  to  walk  slowly  up  and 
down  the  floor;  and  smothering  an  oath  under  his  heavy 
moustache,  the  old  man  sinks  back  in  his  chair.”  She 
throws  up  her  hand  “ with  an  imperious  gesture,  not  of 
deprecation  but  of  interdict,  and  all  the  strong  calm  in 
her  face  seemed  shivered  by  a passionate  gust  that  made 
her  eyes  gleam  like  steel  under  an  electric  flash.” 

The  general  and  his  granddaughter  “ go  on  ” in  this  way 
for  some  time.  They  part  in  anger,  and  that  same  night 
the  general  is  murdered.  “ Tiberius  ” is  the  prosecuting 
attorney  in  the  case  against  Beryl  for  the  murder  of  her 
grandfather.  His  real  name  is  Lennox  Dunbar,  and  we 
are  informed  that  he  was  like  a bust  of  Tiberius.  During 
the  trial  the  agony  of  suspense  and  three-syllabled  words 
is  terrible.  The  mildest  thing  is  this  speech : 

“ There  is  no  heaven  on  earth,  but  the  nearest  approach  to  it, 
the  outlying  suburbs  whence  we  get  bewildering  glimpses  of  beati- 
tude beyond,  is  the  season  of  courtship  and  betrothal.  In  the  magi- 
cal days  of  sweetheartdom  a silvery,  glorifying  glamour  wraps  the 
world,  brims  jagged  black  chasms  with  glittering  mist,  paves  rugged 
paths  with  its  shimmering  folds,  and  tenderly  covers  very  deep  in 
rose-leaves  the  clay  feet  of  our  idols.  That  wonderful  light  shines 
only  once  full  upon  us,  but  the  memory  of  it  streams  all  along  the 
succeeding  journey  ; follows  us  up  the  arid  heights,  throws  its  mellow 
after-glow  on  the  darkening  road,  as  we  go  swiftly  down  the  slippery 
hill  of  life.” 

Classic  names  and  allusions  strew  the  pages  of  At  the 
Mercy  of  Tiberius  like  broken  rainbows.  Beryl,  after  ut- 
tering the  most  impassioned  speeches,  flavored  with  a 
consomme  made  from  Lempriere’s  Dictionary  and  an  en- 
cyclopaedia, is  imprisoned  for  the  murder  of  her  grand- 
father. To  add  pathos  to  Beryl’s  imprisonment  Mrs. 


86  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

Evans  Wilson  tells  us  that  she  was  born  on  the  Fourth  of 
July — “ Independence  Day.”  Lennox  Dunbar,  the  “ Ti- 
berius,” falls  in  love  with  Befyl.  After  a number  of  im- 
probable episodes  it  is  found  that  Beryl’s  brother  tried  to 
steal  General  Darrington’s  valuables,  and  that  during  a 
struggle  General  Darrington  was  killed  by  lightning. 
The  erring  brother  becomes  a Jesuit  and  dies  an  edify- 
ing death  among  his  Jesuit  friends — “ cowled  monks,”  in 
the  picturesque  language  of  the  author.  Notwithstand-  i 
ing  the  two  pagan  mottoes  from  Emerson  which  adorn 
the  title-page,  the  book  shows  genuine  respect  for  Chris- 
tianity. 

Harris:  “Free  Joe.” 

One  of  the  most  charming  young  women  in  modern 
fiction  is  Helen  Eustis  in  “Azalia,”  one  of  Joel  Chandler 
Harris’s  short  stories  collected  in  his  last  book,  Free 
Joe , and  Other  Georgian  Sketches  (New  York:  Charles 
Scribner’s  Sons).  The  title  “Azalia”  would,  judging  by 
the  ordinary  short  story,  lead  one  to  suppose  it  was  a 
girl’s  name,  and  that  the  girl  was  perhaps  an  untutored 
Cracker  maiden  who,  meeting  a “ city  chap,”  fell  in  love 
with  him  and  died  in  the  most  pathetic  way.  It  is  an 
agreeable  disappointment  to  find  that  Azalia  is  the  name 
of  a place  in  Georgia.  Helen  is  a witty  and  unaffected 
Bostonian.  Mr.  Harris  does  not  tell  us  this ; he  lets  us 
make  Helen’s  acquaintance.  Miss  Tewksbury,  Helen’s 
aunt,  is  afraid  of  the  Ku-klux,  and  when  the  young  lady 
is  ordered  to  Azalia  for  her  health  Miss  Tewksbury’s  fear 
of  danger  becomes  almost  a certainty. 

“‘Dr.  Buxton,’  Helen  says,  ‘is  a life-long  Democrat,  conse- 
quently he  must  know  all  about  it.  Father  used  to  tell  him  he  liked 
his  medicine  better  than  his  politics,  bitter  as  some  of  it  was  ; but  in 
a case  of  this  kind  Dr.  Buxton’s  politics  have  a distinct  value.  He 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  87 

will  give  us  the  grips,  the  signs,  and  the  passwords,  dear  aunt,  and  I 
dare  say  we  shall  get  along  comfortably.’  ” 

And  they  do.  Their  experiences  in  the  South  are  pleas- 
ant. Goolsby,  the  bcok-agent,  is  delightful.  He  says  to 
the  ex-Confederate  General  Garwood,  speaking  of  a book 
he  is  selling: 

“ 1 It’s  a history  or  our  own  great  conflict,  The  Rise  and  Fall  of 
the  Rebellion , by  Schuyler  Paddleford.  I don’t  know  what  the  blamed 
publishers  wanted  to  put1  it  “rebellion”  for.  I told  ’em,  says  I, 
“Gentlemen,  it’ll  be  up-hill  work  with  this  in  the  Sunny  South. 
Call  it  1 The  Conflict,’  ” says  I.  But  they  wouldn’t  listen,  and  now 
I have  to  work  like  a blind  nigger  splittin  rails.  If  sech  a book  is 
got  to  be  circulated  around  here,  it  better  be  circulated  by  some  good 
Southron — a man  that’s  a kind  of  antidote  to  the  poison,  as  it  were.’” 

The  discussions  between  General  Garwood  and  Miss 
Tewksbury  on  slavery  are  amusing.  Miss  Tewksbury  in- 
sists that  there  was  no  good  in  slavery: 

“ ‘ You  must  admit  that  but  for  slavery  the  negroes  who  are  here 
would  be  savages  in  Africa.  As  it  is,  they  have  had  the  benefit  of 
more  than  two  hundred  years’  contact  with  the  white  race.  If  they 
are  at  all  fitted  for  citizenship,  the  result  is  due  to  the  civilizing  in- 
fluence of  slavery.  It  seems  to  me  that  they  are  vastly  better  off  as 
American  citizens,  even  though  they  have  endured  the  discipline  of 
slavery,  than  they  would  be  as  savages  in  Africa.’  ” 

“ Azalia,”  with  its  pleasant  atmosphere,  in  which  good- 
humor  plays  the  part  of  oxygen,  is  an  excellent  story. 
The  other  tales  in  the  book  possess  that  unaffectedness 
and  spontaneity  characteristic  of  Mr.  Harris’  method, 
from  which  nothing  could  be  more  different  than  that  of 
the  other  Southern  writer,  Mrs.  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Crawford:  “ Paul  Patoff.” 

Mr.  Marion  Crawford’s  industry  and  versatility  seem 
boundless.  Marzio's  Crucifix  is  hardly  noticed  when 
Among  the  Immortals  is  announced  and  Paul  Patoff  { New 


88 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


York:  Houghton,  Mifflin  & Co.)  actually  appears.  It 
shows  no  falling  off  in  style ; Mr.  Crawford’s  style  is  lucid, 
elegant,  and  always  adapted  to  his  subject.  He  is  a 
master  of  the  art  of  narration,  though  by  no  means  of 
the  art  of  construction.  And  his  power  and  his  lack  of 
power  are  plainly  manifested  in  Paul  Patoff.  The  young 
diplomatist,  the  son  of  an  English  mother  who  hates  him, 
is  a strong  and  real  character ; “ the  moral  sufferings  of 
his  childhood  had  killed  the  natural  affections  in  him, 
and  there  had  remained  nothing  in  their  stead  but  a strong 
sense  of  duty  to  his  nearest  relations.”  Madame  Patoff’ s 
love  is  wrapped  up  in  her  son  Alexander,  an  effeminate 
dandy.  She  has  always  preferred  Alexander  to  Paul. 
And  so  strong  becomes  her  dislike  to  the  latter  that,  be- 
ing a fixed  idea  constantly  dwelt  upon  by  a morbid  mind, 
it  leads  her  to  attempt  to  kill  the  son  she  hates.  Mr. 
Crawford’s  wonderful  descriptions  of  life  in  Constantino- 
ple— the  Mohammedan  celebration  in  the  cathedral  of 
Santa  Sophia,  the  scenes  in  the  Bazaar,  the  death  of  the 
Turkish  lady — almost  make  us  forget  the  repulsiveness  of 
the  subject.  The  effect  of  maternal  dislike  on  a charac- 
ter so  well  balanced  as  that  of  Paul  Patoff  has  been  care- 
fully studied,  it  is  true.  But  all  Mr.  Crawford’s  skill  can- 
not make  the  reader  accept  Madame  Patoff’s  condition 
of  mind  as  anything  but  monstrously  impossible.  A 
mother  could  prefer  one  son  to  another,  but  the  mother 
who  could  twice  attempt  to  kill  the  son  she  disliked  ex- 
ists only  in  fiction. 

Alexander  Patoff  and  his  brother  visit  the  mosque 
of  Santa  Sophia  on  the  last  night  of  the  feast  of  Rama- 
dan. Alexander  had  insulted  a Turkish  woman  dur- 
ing the  day  and  caused  his  brother  much  anxiety,  as 
Paul  was  an  attache  of  legation  and  he  feared  that  his  career 
might  be  injured  by  his  brother’s  indiscretion.  During 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  89 

the  ceremonies  Alexander  disappears.  It  would  be  cer- 
tain death  for  a Frank,  particularly  a Russian,  to  venture 
among  the  fanatics  in  the  body  of  the  mosque,  or  even 
into  the  street.  Paul  and  his  attendant  only  know  that 
he  has  disappeared.  Alexander  and  all  traces  of  him  are 
lost.  Madame  Patoff  assumes  at  once  that  the  son  she 
hates  has  killed  the  son  she  loves.  When  Paul,  whose 
impassive  nature  has  been  touched  by  the  vision  of  a sweet 
and  womanly  English  girl,  proposes  to  her,  he  is  met  with 
the  spectre  of  his  supposed  crime.  His  mother  assists  in 
exciting  the  doubts  of  Hermione,  the  girl  who  has  prom- 
ised to  marry  him,  and  he  goes  away,  vowing  to  bring  his 
brother  back  or  not  to  return  himself.  The  adventures 
that  follow  are  as  exciting  as  any  in  the  Arabian  Nights. 
By  means  of  the  almost  preternatural  shrewdness  of  Bal- 
samides  Bey,  Alexander  is  found  in  a cell  where  he  has 
been  kept  for  over  a year.  The  Turkish  lady  whom  he 
had  affronted  decoyed  him  to  her  palace,  and,  having 
played  a practical  joke  on  him,  had  kept  him  prisoner, 
being  afraid  either  to  kill  or  release  him.  Here  the  story 
ought  to  end,  but  Mr.  Crawford  tacks  to  it  a kind  of  sup- 
plement. Alexander  endeavors  to  induce  Hermione  to 
discard  Paul;  Hermione  hesitates,  and  Madame  Patoff, 
to  help  along  Alexander  in  his  suit,  tries  to  murder  her 
other  son.  Finally  this  obnoxious  woman  goes  raving 
mad. 

Alexander’s  cowardice  and  selfishness  are  made  ap- 
parent to  Hermione,  and  the  usual  marriage-bells  ring. 
Mr.  Griggs’s  speeches  to  the  American  “ scientist  ” are 
particularly  good.  Professor  Carver  insists  that  Chris- 
tians in  arguing  with  “ scientists  ” always  fall  back  on  faith 
and  refuse  to  listen  to  reason.  “ When  you  can  disprove 
our  position,”  answers  Mr.  Griggs,  “ we  will  listen  to  your 
proof.  But  since  the  whole  human  race,  as  far  as  we  can 


90  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

ascertain,  without  any  exception  whatsoever,  has  believed 
always  in  the  survival  of  the  soul  after  death,  allow  me 
to  say  that  when  you  deny  the  existence  of  the  soul  the 
onus  probandi  lies  with  you,  and  not  with  us.” 

Anstey:  “ Fallen  Idol.” 

Mr.  Anstey’s  Fallen  Idol  (Philadelphia:  Lippincott  & 
Co.)  is  cleverer  than  A Tinted  Venus  and  The  Giant's 
Robe , and  it  approaches  the  inimitable  Vice  Versa.  It  is 
a very  funny  burlesque  on  the  craze  for  Buddhism  lately 
developed  in  the  society  of  the  cultured.  It  is  of  the 
same  class  as  Mr.  Frank  Stockton’s  delightful  extrava- 
ganza, The  Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshine 
(The  Century  Co.)  It  is  difficult  to  characterize  the 
quality  of  humor  which  Mr.  Stockton  diffuses  through  this 
story  of  two  good  housewives  wrecked  in  company  with  a 
young  man  whom  they  take  under  their  protection.  Mr. 
Frank  Stockton  is  more  of  an  artist  than  Mr.  Anstey,  and 
has  more  “ staying  power.”  The  strict  honesty  and  “ ca- 
pability ” of  the  two  women  from  the  Middle  States,  who 
in  the  most  extravagant  situations  are  entirely  true  to 
life,  are  drawn  by  a humorist  who  has  all  the  delicacy  of 
Mr.  Howells  and  the  brilliancy,  without  the  vulgarity  and 
cynicism,  of  M.  Edmond  About.  Mr.  Stockton’s  humor 
is  a great  advance  on  that  of  Orpheus  C.  Kerr  and  Petro- 
leum V.  Nasby.  It  is  indicative  of  the  improved  taste  of 
the  American  people. 

The  late  Miss  Alcott:  “Jo’s  Boys.” 

Miss  Alcott’s  Jo's  Boys  (Boston:  Roberts  Bros.)  is  the 
last  of  the  series  of  young-folk  books  beginning  with  Little 
Wome?i.  And  the  older  folk,  too,  will  take  leave  of  them 
with  regret.  Lingering  over  the  pleasant  pages,  we  too 
are  moved  with  regret  that  no  Catholic  writer  has  yet 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  91 

given  us  a book  or  series  of  books  for  young  people  that 
will  compare  in  attractiveness  of  manner  and  knowledge 
of  human  nature  with  Miss  Alcott’s  books.  Why  should 
the  best  of  our  children’s  books  not  be  founded  on  a 
deeper  and  truer  philosophy  than  that  of  Emerson?  Why 
should  not  the  beauty  of  Catholic  life  be  shown  through 
the  most  powerful  of  all  mediums — the  stories  loved  of 
the  young?  We  are  young  during  the  greater  part  of  our 
lives,  and  we  return  again  to  our  childhood  when  we  grow 
old. 

Picard:  “Old  Boniface.” 

Old  Boniface:  A Novel  (New  York:  White,  Stokes  & 
Allen)  is  by  Mr.  George  H.  Picard,  author  of  A Mission 
Flower , which  was  a remarkable  American  novel.  Old 
Boniface  is  an  “ international  ” story.  It  has  no  merit 
whatever,  except  an  easy  style. 

Wharton:  “Hannibal  of  New  York.” 

Mr.  Thomas  Wharton,  author  of  A Latter-Day  Saint, , 
has  written  Hannibal  of  New  York  (Henry  Holt  & Co.) 
It  is  a hard,  coarse  caricature  of  life.  The  personages 
are  newly  rich  millionaires,  so  vulgar  and  heartless  that 
nobody  can  be  benefited  by  making  their  acquaintance. 
They  are  not  even  amusing.  There  is  some  force  in  the 
picture  of  the  wife  of  the  millionaire  deprived  of  every 
dollar  as  a punishment,  but  her  sufferings  are  not  edifying. 
One  of  the  strongest  pleas  for  idealism  in  modern  litera- 
ture is  the  existence  of  would-be  realistic  books  like  Ha?i- 
nibal  of  New  York. 

Mrs.  Whitney:  “ Bonnyborough.” 

Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney’s  Bonnyborough  (Houghton, 
Mifflin  & Co.)  is  a worthy  successor  to  The  Wide , Wide 


92  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

World  and  other  “ talky  ” books,  in  which  the  characters 
made  muffins,  invented  new  readings  of  Bible  texts  in- 
jected into  New  England  slang,  and  were  generally  harm- 
less idiots  with  a mania.  “ Peace  Polly  ” is  the  name  of 
the  heroine  of  Bonnyborough.  A vein  of  pleasantry  is  in- 
troduced into  the  commonplace  life  of  this  young  person 
by  the  twisting  of  her  name  into  “ pease  porridge.”  This 
bit  of  humor  vivifies  a good  many  dreary  pages  of  the 
four  hundred  which  make  up  Bonnyborough.  Mrs.  Whit- 
ney loses  no  opportunity  to  hit  those  city  people  who  are 
supposed  to  astound  country  people  in  the  summer  by 
their  superior  savoir  faire.  She  tells  with  gusto  of  a pic- 
nic to  which  the  “ country  boarders  ” were  not  invited: 
“ The  ladies  with  country  toilets  carefully  suggestive  of 
metropolitan  art  and  resource,  and  the  young  men  with 
the  water-cart  whiskers  and  successful  British  intonations, 
took  their  turn  at  standing  about  or  sitting  on  piazzas,  to 
see  the  equipment  and  start  of  the  simple,  and  to  stare, 
as  the  simple  had  been  supposed  to  have  stared — only 
they  never  did — at  themselves.”  But  in  spite  of  the 
queer  theology  of  the  book,  the  twisted  applications  of 
Scripture  that  sometimes  seem  irreverent,  there  are  signs 
of  a desire  to  get  nearer  to  the  truth  and  of  the  conviction 
that  without  God  and  his  grace  the  earth  is  “ earthy.” 

Miss  Jewett:  “Marsh  Rosemary.” 

Miss  Sarah  Orne  Jewett  is  another  New-Englander  of 
the  “ Quietist  ” school.  She  has  something  of  the  tone  of 
the  charming  Miss  Mitford,  whose  Our  Village  and  Bel- 
ford  Regis  are  classics.  Her  latest  book  is  The  White 
Heron , aiid  Other  Stories  (Houghton,  Mifflin  & Co.) 
“ Marsh  Rosemary  ” is  the  most  carefully  written  of  the 
sketches  that  make  up  the  book.  It  is  on  the  same  line 
as  Tennyson’s  “ Enoch  Arden.”  An  old  maid  marries  a 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


93 


young  and  lazy  man.  After  a time  he  disappears ; she 
mourns  in  silence,  forgetting  his  bad  qualities  and  glori- 
fying his  good  ones.  Suddenly,  after  a lapse  of  time,  Mrs. 
Elton,  a village  gossip,  brings  news  of  the  man  whom  Ann 
Floyd  had  believed  to  be  dead: 

“Ann  was  stitching  busily  upon  the  deacon’s  new  coat,  and 
looked  up  with  a friendly  smile  as  her  guest  came  in,  in  spite  of  an 
instinctive  shrug  as  she  had  seen  her  coming  up  the  yard.  The  dis- 
like of  the  poor  souls  for  each  other  was  deeper  than  their  philosophy 
could  reach.” 

It  is  remarkable  that  in  most  of  these  New  England 
stories  in  which  the  life  of  the  people  is  depicted  with 
fidelity,  religion  assumes  a hard  and  repellant  aspect. 
The  deacons,  the  farmers,  the  seamstresses — who  seem  to 
answer  in  social  position  to  Miss  Mitford’s  poor  English 
gentlewomen — and  even  the  minister,  are  in  their  profes- 
sionally religious  capacity  unforgiving  and  obstinate. 
Ann,  in  “ Marsh  Rosemary,”  in  her  trouble  is  all  the 
more  pathetic  because  religion  has  no  consolations  for 
her.  She  finds  that  her  husband  has  “ married  ” another 
woman.  She  comes  suddenly,  unobserved,  upon  a do- 
mestic scene  made  up  of  the  faithless  Jerry,  his  wife,  and 
the  baby.  She  is  pleased  to  hear  that  Jerry,  who,  the 
neighbors  predicted,  could  come  to  no  good,  is  thrifty 
and  industrious ; but  then  the  sense  of  her  woe  and  his 
treachery  enters  her  heart : 

“ The  other  woman  stood  there  looking  at  them,  full  of  pride 
and  love.  She  was  young  and  trig  and  neat.  She  looked  a brisk, 
efficient  little  creature.  Perhaps  Jerry  would  make  something  of 
himself  now  ; he  always  had  it  in  him.  The  tears  were  running  down 
Ann’s  cheeks  ; the  rain,  too,  had  begun  to  fall.  She  stood  there 
watching  the  little  household  sit  down  to  supper,  and  noticed  with 
eager  envy  how  well  cooked  the  food  was  and  how  hungrily  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house  ate  what  was  put  before  him.  All  thoughts  of  end- 
ing the  new  wife’s  sin  and  folly  vanished  away.  She  could  not  enter 
in  and  break  another  heart  ; hers  was  broken  already,  and  it  would 
not  matter.” 


94  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

Now,  Ann — or  Nancy,  as  Miss  Jewett  prefers  to  call 
her — was  a religious  woman,  according  to  her  Congrega- 
tional lights ; but  in  this  crisis,  when  it  was  a question  of 
solving  a social  problem  which  she  had  no  right  to  solve 
in  a sentimental  way,  her  religion  offered  her  neither  con- 
solation nor  direction.  Jerry,  evidently  a bad  and  heart- 
less man,  was  left  to  his  sin,  and  his  innocent  partner  to 
the  consequence  of  it.  He  might  desert  his  new  wife  as 
he  had  deserted  his  old  one.  But  Nancy,  who  paid  out 
of  her  scanty  earnings  her  portion  of  the  minister’s  salary 
and  never  missed  meeting,  takes  no  thought  of  her  re- 
sponsibility as  accessory  to  her  husband’s  crime.  Miss 
Jewett’s  sketches  are  slight  but  artistic,  and  so  true  to 
life  that,  like  Mrs.  Terry  Cook’s  Sphyiix's  Children , they 
have  worth  as  material  for  the  study  of  New  England  life. 
Gogol  and  Tolstoi,  and  others  of  the  Russian  novelists 
now  so  greatly  in  vogue,  have  this  merit  of  fidelity.  And 
in  St.  John's  Eve , by  Gogol  (New  York:  Crowell  & Co.), 
we  find  a clue  to  the  present  position  of  Russia  among 
novels.  In  fact,  novels  are  to-day  doing  what  we  formerly 
expected  history  to  do — telling  us  the  truth ; we  gain  more 
knowledge  of  the  character  of  the  Russian  people  from 
the  Russian  realists  than  from  all  the  cumbrous  historical 
essays  on  the  Cossacks  and  Peter  the  Great  yet  written. 

Hamerton:  “Golden  Mediocrity/' 

Mr.  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton’s  books,  Thoughts  about 
Art \ The  Intellectual  Life , and  A Painter' s Camp  in  the 
Highlands , are  deservedly  appreciated.  It  is  no  reflec- 
tion on  the  supremely  good  taste  he  has  always  shown 
that  he  married  a Frenchwoman.  Madame  Eugenie 
Hamerton  is  the  author  of  Golden  Mediocrity  (Boston: 
Roberts  Brothers),  a novel  which  must  have  a healthy 
effect.  It  is  subdued  in  tone,  but  in  admirable  taste. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


95 


The  interest  is  gentle  but  well  kept  up.  Madame  Ham- 
erton  paints  a French  interior — not  the  kind  of  an  inte- 
rior which  we  usually  see  in  French  feuilletons , but  the 
inside  of  a home.  Madame  Hamerton  contrasts  the  fru- 
gal elegance  of  French  housekeeping  with  the  extrava- 
gance of  the  English — and  also  the  American — methods. 
The  French  understand  that  elegance  and  “ mediocrity  ” 
of  income  are  not  incompatible.  In  the  case  of  the  Mar- 
quis de  Civray  she  has  an  example  of  the  horrible  results 
of  the  constant  intermarriages  in  noble  families.  She 
treats  it,  not  as  a moralist,  but  as  a sympathetic  observer, 
and  her  narrative  has  the  more  force.  The  experience 
of  the  young  French  people  when  they  feel  for  the  first 
time  the  shock  of  English  cookery  is  amusing.  Helene 
ventures  unsuspiciously  to  eat  horse-radish,  while  her 
brother  tries  the  Worcester  sauce.  “ Immediately  her  tem- 
ples and  forehead  were  pearled  with  tiny  drops  of  perspi- 
ration, which  soon  covered  all  her  face  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair,  and,  with  a trembling,  moist  hand,  she  helped  her- 
self to  a full  tumbler  of  water,  which  she  swallowed  hur- 
riedly.” “ It’s  one  of  the  numerous  sly  devices  of  the 
English  to  astonish  the  foreigners,”  said  Jean;  “they 
choose  our  mouths  as  the  proper  place  to  explode  their 
fireworks  in.” 

The  astonishment  of  Helene’s  English  friends  on  dis- 
covering that  a marquis  may  be  on  terms  of  equality  in 
France  with  a “simple  college  master  and  his  daughter” 
is  graphically  depicted.  The  Marquis  de  Civray  acknowl- 
edges the  status  of  intellect  and  goodness,  while  the  ami- 
able English  of  the  upper  middle  class  can  think  of  noth- 
ing but  the  condescension  of  rank. 

But  Madame  Hamerton  does  not  force  ner  points ; she 
writes  with  keen  perception'  of  lights  and  shades,  but  with 
none  of  that  detestable  “ smartness  ” of  style  which  we 


96  MODERN  NO  VELS  AND  NO  VELISTS. 


have  already  noticed  in  Miss  Marryat’s  vulgar  book  on 
America.  Madame  Hamerton’s  hero  marries  an  English 
girl,  who,  however,  is,  like  him,  a Catholic.  We  have  to 
thank  Madame  Hamerton — we  understand  that  she  does 
not  like  to  be  called  “ Mrs.” — for  a pure  and  interesting 
story,  which  will  do  much  to  dissipate  American  prejudice 
against  the  French  people  and  to  teach  American  mothers 
that  riches  and  extravagance  are  not  necessary  to  elegant 
and  contented  lives. 

Macquoid:  “Joan  Wentworth.” 

Joan  Wentworth  (Harper  & Bros.),  by  Katharine  Mac- 
quoid, is  a pleasant  story  of  French  school-life  and  Breton 
manners.  It  is  probably  an  early  work  of  Mrs.  Macquoid. 

Mallock:  “The  Old  Order  Changes.” 

A new  novel  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  W.  H.  Mallock  is 
sure  to  make  a literary  sensation  and  to  be  read  eagerly 
by  people  who  know  the  flavor  of  that  author’s  previous 
books.  The  Old  Order  Changes  is  less  a novel  than  a 
series  of  dialogues,  managed  with  inimitable  grace  and  ex- 
quisite knowledge  of  those  minor  traits  of  social  human 
nature  which  make  the  highest  comedy.  Mr.  Mallock’s 
usual  tendency  to  pruriency  is  not  so  evident  in  this  work 
as  in  his  preceding  ones.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a certain 
divorced  Madame  de  St.  Valery,  who  has  an  interest  for 
the  hero,  Carew,  and  an  American  girl  who  “ would  have 
gone  to  her  ruin  with  the  same  look  in  her  eyes  that  most 
girls  would  have  in  going  to  their  confirmation,”  yet  much 
is  not  made  of  them.  The  conflict  between  Carew’s  pas- 
sions, the  object  being  this  Miss  Violet  Capel,  and  his 
principles,  which  tend  towards  Miss  Consuelo  Burton,  is 
sufficiently  accentuated  without  any  of  that  over-sensuous 
coloring  which  is  as  vulgar  as  the  modem  sculptor’s  habit 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


97 


of  chiselling  the  temptress  who  appears  to  St.  Anthony 
with  all  possible  power,  and  leaving  out  the  expression 
of  that  will  and  grace  which  made  the  saint  victorious. 
Some  of  Mr.  Mallock’s  personages  find  Thackeray  vulgar, 
and,  from  the  unanimity  of  their  opinion,  it  seems  as  if 
Mr.  Mallock  agrees  with  them.  But  Mr.  Mallock,  whose 
eye  is  very  keen  for  marks  of  vulgarity,  should  avoid  the 
trick  of  pretending  to  take  portraits  of  living  persons  of 
celebrity  and  putting  these  weak  sketches  into  his  books. 
What,  for  instance,  can  be  more  vulgar  than  the  use  of 
“Mr.  Herbert  Spender”  for  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer?  Mr. 
Mallock’s  creations  are  vivid  and  vital  enough  not  to  need 
the  cheap  arts  of  that  most  vulgar  and  meretricious  of 
novelists,  Lord  Beaconsfield. 

Consuelo  Burton  and  her  two  aunts  are  Catholics  of  a 
very  high  English  caste.  The  aunts  are  exceedingly  de- 
vout ; Consuelo,  a great  beauty  and  of  a firm  character, 
believes  all  the  church  teaches,  but  she  has  doubts  whether 
the  church  can  reach  the  poor  in  this  century  or  not. 
Carew  is  reverently  in  search  of  truth,  and  also  more  or 
less  in  love  with  Consuelo.  She  thus  expresses  her  feel- 
ings to  him: 

“ The  world  is  changing  and  the  church  stands  apart  from  the 
change.  . . . And  what,”  she  went  on,  with  a sound  like  a stifled 
sob — “what  has  the  Mass  got  to  do  with  this?  It  might  have  so 
much,  but  at  present  it  has  nothing.  It  distracts  us  from  our  duty  ; 
it  does  not  nerve  us  to  follow  it.  What  right  have  I to  be  listening 
to  angels,  when  outside  the  chancel-wall  are  the  groans  of  the  crowded 
alley  ? Often,  often,  often,  when  I have  heard  the  organ  playing, 
‘ Ilang  the  organ  ! ’ I have  thought  ; ‘ let  me  listen  to  the  crying  of 
the  children.’  ” 

Of  one  of  her  aunts  Miss  Consuelo  says : 

“ When  I watch  her  trotting  off  to  Mass  in  the  morning,  looking 
as  if  she  were  doing  the  whole  duty  of  woman,  I feel  as  if,  myself,  I 
should  never  be  religious  again.” 

4 


98  modern  novels  and  novelists. 


Nevertheless  she  is  religious,  and  Carew,  seeing  her  at 
her  devotions,  is  astonished  by  the  strange,  unearthly 
brightness  of  her  face.  She  listens  to  a dialogue  between 
Mr.  Stanley,  a priest,  and  Foreman,  a Socialist.  The 
priest  shows  how  absurd  are  pretensions  to  the  improve- 
ment of  the  human  race  founded  on  the  theory  that  all 
men  are  capable  of  the  highest  sacrifices.  And,  hearing 
the  priest’s  presentment  of  the  Christian  answer  to  anti- 
religious  Socialism,  she  ceases  to  doubt.  Miss  Consuelo 
Burton  is  an  interesting  character,  but  Mr.  Mallock  has 
not  rightly  interpreted  what  a well-instructed  Catholic 
girl  of  high  mind  would  say  if  she  had  a momentary  fear 
that  modern  infidelity  had  made  a gap  between  religion 
and  the  poor  which  the  church  would  not  bridge.  Surely 
no  thoughtful  assistant  at  the  unbloody  Sacrifice  could  feel 
that  appeals  to  the  Lamb  Of  God  for  mercy  and  peace  are 
not  as  applicable  to  the  poor  as  the  Sacrifice  itself  is  to 
the  whole  human  race.  Miss  Consuelo  Burton  might 
have  been  afraid  that  the  children  of  the  church  had 
failed  to  grasp,  her  meaning,  and  to  act  towards  the  poor, 
stimulated  by  that  meaning ; but  she  would  not — except 
in  Mr.  Mallock’s  book — talk  about  the  church  or  the 
Mass  “ distracting  us  from  our  duty.”  The  most  sublime 
Sacrifice  could  not  make  those  who  understood  it  selfish  ' 
or  self-centred.  The  truth  is  that,  in  causing  his  heroine 
to  talk  this  way,  Mr.  Mallock  has  thought  too  much  of 
the  gorgeous  vestments  and  the  music,  and  too  little  of 
the  divine  Fact  of  which  they  are  only  accessories.  It  is 
the  way  even  of  the  most  sympathetic  non-Catholics. 

The  conversation  between  Mr.  Stanley,  the  priest,  and 
Mr.  Foreman,  the  Agnostic  Socialist,  which  converts  Miss 
Consuelo,  is  very  spirited — Mr.  Mallock  having  recovered 
the  art  of  talking  in  books,  which  seemed  lost  when  Wal- 
ter Savage  Landor  died. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


99 


“If  we  were  all  equally  clever  and  equally  industrious,  your 
theory  would  be  perfect.  The  state  would  be  socialistic  to-morrow. 
There  is  only  one  other  supposition  on  which  the  same  result  would 
be  possible — if  the  average  race  of  men  were  all  of  them  to  rise  to 
heights  of  zeal  and  self-sacrifice  to  which  saints  and  heroes  at  present 
find  it  very  hard  to  attain.  Will  Mr.  Foreman  allow  me  to  ask  one 
f question  more  ? The  kind  of  life  you  contemplate  in  your  Socialist 
state  s one  of  enjoyment,  comfort,  cheerfulness,  is  it  not?  It  does 
not,  at  all  events,  approach  the  gloom  and  the  hard  discipline  of 
monastic  orders  ? Exactly.  I thought  so.  I have  known  other  men 
of  views  similar  to  yours,  and  they  have  all  declared  that  the  asceti- 
cism of  the  Christian  church  is  little  less  than  a blasphemy  against 
our  healthy  human  nature.” 

Mr.  Foreman  agrees  to  this. 

“You  are  doubtless  aware,”  continues  Mr.  Stanley,  “ that  this 
discipline  in  its  severest  form  is  regarded  by  the  Catholic  Church  as 
fitted  only  for  a small  fraction  of  mankind.  What  I want  to  say  to 
you  is,  that  the  severest  discipline  ever  devised  for  any  handful  of 
monks  does  far  less  violence  to  our  average  human  nature  than  the 
change  in  it  which  your  system  would  require  to  be  universal.  It 
would  be  easier,  far  easier,  to  make  men  Trappists  than  Socialists.” 

The  Old  Order  Changes  has  the  brilliancy,  the  wit, 
the  delightful  play  of  humor — witness  the  encounters,  so 
entirely  well-bred,  between  the  Tory  Protestant,  Lady 
Mangotsfield,  and  the  Catholic,  Lady  Chiselhurst — and 
the  soundness  of  reasoning,  up  to  a certain  point,  that 
make  the  appearance  of  each  of  Mr.  Mallock’s  books  a 
striking  feature  in  modern  literature.  We  say  a great  deal 
when  we  say  that  it  has  all  the  best  qualities  of  The  New 
Republic , with  only  one  defect — a plot  which,  while  it  does 
not  make  the  dialogues  and  by-play  more  brilliant,  gives 
a needless  vagueness  and  weakness  to  the  work.  Mr. 
Mallock  need  not  write  a story  in  order  to  interest  his 
readers ; he  possesses  in  a high  degree  the  gift  of  enchain- 
ing attention  by  his  charming  style.  Mr.  Stanley  preaches 
on  the  necessity  of  the  church’s  taking  humanity  more 


IOO 


MODERN  NO  V ELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


into  consideration  and  her  power  of  doing  it.  But  it  is 
no  new  thing  for  a priest  of  God’s  church  to  teach  that 
the  church  holds  within  her  what  is  good  in  all  creeds — 
even  in  Socialism,  and,  above  all,  in  what  is  called  the  re- 
ligion of  Humanity.  Mr.  Mallock,  uhlike  Mr.  Harrison, 
Miss  Vernon  Lee,  and  the  others  who  prattle  so  compla- 
cently of  “ the  choir  invisible,”  reasons.  The  saddest 
thing  in  all  the  modern  worship  of  the  Goddess  of  Rea- 
son is  the  unreason  of  her  worshippers 

Lee:  "Baldwin.” 

Miss  Vernon  Lee  has  a great  many  admirers.  She 
is  a lady  of  a Positivist  turn  of  mind.  She  shows  in  her 
writings  much  familiarity  with  the  nastiest  works  of  fiction 
and  poetry.  She  dwells  on  these  with  the  tenderness  pe- 
culiar to  the  new  aesthetic  school  to  which  she  belongs, 
and  in  her  pages  we  are  taught  that  Maupassant’s  Une 
Vie , Theophile  Gautier’s  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin , and 
Baudelaire’s  Fleurs  du  Mai  are  oft-recurring  topics  in  the 
only  circles  where  the  highest  philosophy  is  talked.  It  is 
rather  hard  to  grasp  this  high  philosophy  as  taught  in 
Baldwin:  Being  Dialogues  on  Vieivs  and  Aspirations  (Bos- 
ton: Roberts  Bros.)  It  has  such  little  body.  Mr.  Mal- 
lock’s  New  Republic  has  doubtless  given  Vernon  Lee — 
who  prefers  to  pose  as  a man — the  idea  of  the  form  of 
Baldwin , as  Lander’s  Imaginary  Conversations  probably 
gave  Mallock  the  idea  of  the  New  Republic.  Mr.  Mallock 
is  bitten  by  the  pruriency  that  disfigures  Vernon  Lee’s 
writings,  and  one  of  the  strongest  chapters  in  Is  life  Worth 
living ? is  ruined  by  a quotation  from  the  worst  novel 
written  in  any  language,  which  quotation  in  Mallock’s 
book,  taken  with  its  context,  becomes  blasphemous. 

If  Mr.  Mallock  and  Vernon  Lee  reflect  the  opinions  of 
the  English  “high  thinkers,”  we  have ‘reason  to  conclude 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


IOI 


that  the  emancipation  from  all  religious  belief  which  Ver- 
non Lee  teaches  us  to  believe  to  be  the  nirvana  of  the 
philosophical  aesthete  has  led  to  a return  to  the  most  hor- 
rible forms  of  pagan  vice.  The  most  remarkable  thing 
about  Vernon  Lee’s  writings,  aside  from  the  constant  play- 
ing with  thoughts  forbidden  to  Christians,  is  the  art  by 
which  so  large  a number  of  well-formed  English  sentences 
are  made  to  cover  so  little  real  knowledge.  She  gives  one 
the  impression  that  she  has  dipped  into  hand-books  and 
saturated  herself  with  certain  poetry  and  novels  in  which 
the  use  of  art  for  art’s  sake  is  made  an  excuse  for  positive 
obscenity. 

It  is  natural  to  conclude  that  a young  woman  who  has 
written  in  a learned  manner  on  the  Renaissance — a large 
book  on  the  Renaissance — should  take  the  trouble  to 
learn  something  of  the  Catholic  Church.  But  she  is  evi- 
dently as  ignorant  of  its  theology  and  its  philosophy  as 
Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,  who  considers  it  unworthy  of  “ phi- 
losophical consideration!” 

Baldwin  is  in  the  shape  of  dialogues.  Labored  efforts 
are  made  to  give  individuality  to  the  characters,  and  de- 
scriptions of  nature  are  introduced  and  greatly  elaborated. 
“The  Responsibilities  of  Unbelief”  is  the  first  dialogue 
in  the  book.  Vere,  Rheinhardt,  and  Baldwin  talk  over 
the  sermon  of  a Monsignor  Russell,  whom  they  have  heard 
preach.  They  are  all  unbelievers.  All  of  them  have 
gotten  over  the  “ weakness  ” of  believing  in  God.  But 
Rheinhardt  is  the  most  advanced. 

“Ladies,”  Rheinhardt  says,  “I  admit,  may  require  for  their 
complete  happiness  to  abandon  their  conscience  occasionally  into  the 
hands  of  some  saintly  person  ; but  do  you  mean  to  say  that  a man  in 
possession  of  all  his  faculties,  with  plenty  to  do  in  the  world,  with  a 
library  of  good  books,  some  intelligent  friends,  a good  digestion,  and 
a good  theatre  when  he  has  a mind  to  go  there — do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  such  a man  can  ever  be  troubled  by  wants  of  the  soul  ? ” 


102 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


After  Rheinhardt  asks  this  question  the  author  drops 
into  one  of  those  over-worked  bits  of  description  held  by 
her  admirers  to  be  exceedingly  vivid  and  graphic: 

“ Beyond  the  blush  and  gold  (coppery  and  lilac  and  tawny  tints 
united  by  the  faint  undergrowing  green)  of  the  seeding  grasses  and 
flowering  rushes,  was  a patch  of  sunlit  common-ground  of  pale, 
luminous  brown,  like  that  of  a sunlit  brook-bed,  fretted  and  frosted 
with  the  gray  and  rustiness  of  moss  and  gorse,  specks  of  green  grass 
and  tufts  of  purple  heather  merged  in  that  permeating  golden  brown. 
The  light  seemed  to  emanate  from  the  soil,  and  in  it  were  visible, 
clear  at  many  yards’  distance,  the  delicate  outlines  of  minute  sprays 
and  twigs,  connected  by  a network  of  shining  cob-webs,  in  which 
moved  flies  and  bees  diaphanous  and  luminous  like  the  rest,  and 
whose  faint,  all-overish  hum  seemed  to  carry  out  in  sound  the  visible 
pattern  of  that  sun-steeped  piece  of  ground.” 

This  is  a good  example  of  the  manner  in  which  some 
modern  writers  overlay  words  with  words  in  the  effort  to 
imitate  the  effects  of  the  paint-brush.  Sir  Walter  Scott’s 
and  Cooper’s  manner  of  suggesting  natural  pictures  have 
gone  out  of  fashion,  and  in  return  we  get  this  sort  of  thing. 
The  talkers  go  on  considering  the  responsibility  of  unbe- 
lief. Now,  one  of  the  most  fascinating  qualities  of  unbe- 
lief seems  to  most  people  its  absence  of  responsibilities. 
But  Baldwin  tries  to  make  it  plain,  taking  for  a text  Mon- 
signor Russell’s  zeal  in  preaching  the  faith,  that  unbe- 
lievers have  resting  on  them  the  responsibility  of  propa- 
gating un-faith.  Whom  they  are  responsible  to  does  not 
appear,  and  Rheinhardt  voices  the  logical  conclusion  of 
the  religion  of  humanity,  to  whom  they  all  belong,  when 
he  says:  “ Upon  my  word,  I don’t  know  which  is  the 
greater  plague,  the  old-fashioned  nuisance  called  a soul 
or  the  new-fangled  bore  called  mankind.” 

But  Baldwin,  who  is  a wretchedly  hypocritical  and 
“talky”  prig,  tries  to  convince  Vere  that  he  ought  to  de- 
stroy the  religious  belief  of  his  wife  and  children : 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


103 


“Do  you  consider  this  as  complete  union  with  another,  this 
deliberate  silence  and  indifference,  this  growing  and  changing  and 
maturing  of  your  own  mind,  while  you  see  her  mind  cramped  and 
maimed  by  beliefs  which  you  have  long  cast  behind  you  ? This 
divorce  of  your  minds,  which  I can  understand  only  towards  a . mis- 
tress, a creature  for  whom  your  mind  does  not  exist — how  can  you 
reconcile  it  to  your  idea  of  the  love  of  a husband  to  a wife?” 

Vere,  in  real  life,  would  probably  answer  that  a wife 
without  religion  would  run  the  risk  of  becoming  less  of  a 
mother  and  more  of  a mistress.  But  in  Vernon  Lee’s 
hands  he  only  says: 

“ I respect  my  wife’s  happiness,  then,  and  my  children’s  happi- 
ness ; and  for  that  reason  I refrain  from  laying  rough  hands  upon 
illusions  which  are  part  of  that  happiness.  Accident  has  brought  us 
into  contact  with  what  you  and  I call  truth — I have  been  shorn  of  my 
belief  ; I am  emancipated,  free,  superior — all  things  which  a thorough 
rationalist  is  in  the  eyes  of  rationalists;  but” — and  Vere  turned  round 
upon  Baldwin  with  a look  of  pity  and  bitterness — “ I have  not  yet  at- 
tained to  the  perfection  of  living  a hypocrite,  a sophist  to  myself,  of 
daring  to  pretend  to  my  own  soul  that  this  belief  of  ours,  this  truth, 
is  not  bitter  and  abominable,  icy  and  arid  to  our  hearts.” 

. Nevertheless  Baldwin  goes  on  arguing  on  the  responsi- 
bility of  unbelievers  to  communicate  the  truth  that  there 
is  no  truth,  until  at  the  end  Vere  says:  “ But  you  see  I 
love  my  children  a great  deal ; and — well,  I mean  that  I 
have  not  the  heart  to  assume  the  responsibility  of  such  a 
decision.”  “You  shirk  your  responsibilities,”  answers 
Baldwin,  “ and  in  doing  so  you  take  upon  yourself  the 
heaviest  responsibility  of  any.” 

All  this  is  mere  juggling  with  puppets  and  words.  And 
if  there  is  any  evidence  needed  to  show  how  inadequate 
this  Positivism  is  for  any  useful  or  logical  purpose,  Ver- 
non Lee’s  dialogues  furnish  it  conclusively.  Another  dia- 
logue, “ The  Consolations  of  Belief,”  is  almost  as  serio- 
comic in  effect  as  “ The  Responsibilities  of  Unbelief.” 


104  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

Baldwin  talks  at  a young  lady  named  Agnes  Stuart,  who 
has  been  a Christian.  Finally  “ a strange  melancholy, 
almost  like  a physical  ache,  came  over  Agatha.”  People 
who  have  followed  Baldwin’s  limitless  flow  of  talk  will  un- 
derstand that  this  was  the  kind  of  ache  that  afflicted  the 
hapless  wedding-guest.  “ I think  you  are  deserving  of 
envy,”  answered  Agnes  coldly.  “ But  I prefer  to  believe 
in  the  goodness  of  God.”  This  is  the  most  triumphant 
declaration  of  belief  that  Vernon  Lee  permits  any  of  her 
puppets  to  utter.  She  cannot  conceive  of  a Christian, 
strong  and  logical,  because  she  is  ignorant  of  the  church, 
and  because  her  studies  of  life  and  literature  have  been 
all  on  the  surface.  The  arguments  of  these  dialogues  can 
unsettle  no  clear  and  well-instructed  mind.  But  the  allu- 
sions to  nasty  literature,  similar  to  the  allusions  to  nasty 
vices  which  made  Vernon  Lee’s  Miss  Brown  an  indecent 
book,  may  help  to  make  thoughts  already  corrupted  more 
corrupt.  Vernon  Lee  is  regarded  by  a certain  class  of 
shallow  thinkers  and  readers  as  a strong  representative  of 
high  and  refined  philosophy  and  literature.  Her  work  is 
a constant  example  of  the  truth  that  pretended  belief  in 
Neo-Paganism — we  say  “ pretended,”  for  it  is  plain  that 
these  infidels  protest  too  much  their  disbelief  in  God 
— leads  to  the  contemplation  of  the  lowest  objects  under 
the  most  high-sounding  names.  Priapus  looks  well  in  a 
phrase  of  poetry;  but  it  is  a symbol  of  things  which  only 
the  inhabitants  of  slums  and  dives  dare  utter  in  plain  Eng- 
lish to  their  fellows.  And  in  this  revival  of  “ culture  ” we 
find  the  morals  of  Horace  gilded  in  imitation  of  the  gold 
of  his  phrases.  Progress,  with  people  like  the  teachers 
of  Vernon  Lee,  means  that  we  are  to  go  back  to  the 
Augustan  age,  but  with  no  hope  that  God  will  come  as 
Christ  to  save  the  world. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 105 

Reid  : “ Miss  Churchill.” 

Miss  Churchill,  by  Christian  Reid  (New  York:  D.  Ap- 
pleton & Co.),  is  a pure  and  pleasant  novel  of  mild  inter- 
est, inferior  to  Morton  House  and  A Child  of  Mary,  but, 
nevertheless,  of  sufficient  merit.  Lucy  Crofton,  by  Mrs. 
Oliphant  (New  York:  Harper  & Brothers),  is  a slight 
story,  not  in  the  authors  best  vein,  yet  also  not  without 
some  delicate  character-drawing. 

Harte : "A  Millionaire  of  Rough  and  Ready.” 

Bret  Harte,  like  Homer,  sometimes  nods  in  telling  his 
tales  of  the  Argonauts.  But  in  A Millionaire  of  Rough 
and  Ready  (Boston  and  New  York:  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Company)  he  is  very  wide  awake.  His  crisp,  firm,  direct 
style  is  the  best  possible  medium  for  the  stories  he  has  to 
tell.  In  The  Millionaire  of  Rough  and  Ready  Bret  Harte 
effectively  teaches  the  lesson  that  circumstances  do  not 
bring  happiness,  and,  above  all,  that  riches  may  bring 
worse  evils  than  poverty.  The  story  is  a work  of  art, 
without  the  exaggeration  that  mars  some  of  his  other 
stories  and  without  their  false  sentiment.  A miner  named 
Slinn  finds  gold  at  last.  But,  having  tasted  by  anticipa- 
tion the  joys  of  wealth,  he  is  stricken  by  paralysis.  Alvin 
Mulrady  comes  to  Los  Gatos,  where  Slinn  was  blasted, 
with  the  secret  of  his  discovery  untold.  Mulrady,  instead 
of  following  the  Georgeite  theory  of  the  surrounding  pop- 
ulation and  squatting  on  the  land,  went  to  the  owner,  Don 
Ramon  Alvarado,  and  offered  to  manage  a farm  “on 
shares.”  Don  Ramon  and  his  son,  Don  Caesar,  are  drawn 
truthfully  and  delicately.  Their  high-breeding  gives  them 
even  in  poverty  an  incalculable  superiority  over  their  rich 
but  vulgar  neighbors. 

44  ‘They  are  savages,’  said  Don  Ramon  of  the  miners,  4 who  ex- 
pect to  reap  where  they  have  not  sown  ; to  take  out  of  the  earth 


106  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

without  returning  anything  to  it  but  their  precious  carcasses  ; 
heathens  who  worship  the  mere  stones  they  dig  up.’  ‘ And  was  there 
no  Spaniard  who  ever  dug  gold?’  asked  Mulrady  simply.  ‘Ah! 
there  are  Spaniards  and  Moors,’ responded  Don  Ramon  sententiously. 

4 Gold  has  been  dug,  and  by  caballeros  ; but  no  good  ever  came  of  it. 
There  were  Alvarados  in  Sonora,  look  you,  who  had  mines  of  silver , 
and  worked  them  with  peons  and  mules,  and  lost  their  money — a 
gold-mine  to  work  a silver  one — like  gentlemen  ! But  this  grubbing 
in  the  dirt  with  one’s  fingers,  that  a little  gold  may  stick  to  them,  is 
not  for  caballeros.  And  then  one  says  nothing  of  the  curse.’  ‘ The 
curse  ! ’ echoed  Mary  Mulrady,  with  youthful  feminine  superstition. 

‘ What  is  that  ? ’ 

“ 4 You  know  not,  friend  Mulrady,  that  when  these  lands  were 
given  to  my  ancestors  by  Charles  V.,  the  Bishop  of  Monterey  laid  a 
curse  upon  any  who  should  desecrate  them.  Good  ! Let  us  see  ! Of 
the  three  Americans  who  founded  yonder  town  one  was  shot, 
another  died  of  fever — poisoned,  you  understand,  by  the  soil — and 
the  last  got  himself  crazy  of  aguardiente.  Even  the  scientifico  who 
came  here  years  ago  and  spied  into  the  trees  and  the  herbs — he  was 
afterwards  punished  for  his  profanation,  and  died  of  an  accident  in 
other  lands.  But,’  added  Don  Ramon,  with  grave  courtesy,  ‘this 
touches  not  yourself.  Through  me  you  are  of  the  soil.’  ” 

Don  Caesar  falls  in  love  with  “ Mamie  ” Mulrady.  And 
the  pushing  Mrs.  Mulrady  scarce  hopes  that  the  aristo- 
crat will  marry  her  daughter.  But  Alvin  finds  the  mine 
that — apparently  to  the  reader — belonged  to  the  paralyzed 
Slinn.  Mrs.  Mulrady  hurries  her  daughter  away  and 
gradually  fits  herself  to  lead  in  Californian  society,  and 
Don  Caesar  grows  small  before  the  hope  of  a foreign  prince. 

Mrs.  Mulrady’s  gradual  evolution  into  that  horrible  be- 
ing expressed  by  that  horrible  phrase,  “ society  lady,”  is 
delightfully  sketched: 

It  occurred  to  her  to  utilize  the  softer  accents  of  Don  Coesar  in 
the  pronunciation  of  their  family  name,  and  privately  had  ‘ Mulrade’ 
take  the  place  of  Mulrady  on  her  visiting-card.  It  might  be  Span- 
ish,’ she  argued  with  her  husband.  ‘ Lawyer  Cole  says  most  Amerb 
can  names  are  corrupted,  and  how  do  you  know  yours  ain’t?’  Mul- 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 107 

rady,  who  could  not  swear  that  his  ancestors  came  from  Ireland  to 
the  Carolinas  in  ’g8,  was  helpless  to  refute  the  assertion.  But  the 
terrible  Nemesis  of  an  un-Spanish,  American  provincial  speech 
avenged  the  orthographical  outrage  at  once.  When  Mrs.  Mulrady 
began  to  be  addressed  orally,  as  well  as  by  letter,  as  ‘ Mrs.  Mulraid,’ 
and  when  simple  amatory  effusions  to  her  daughter  rhymed  with 
4 lovely  maid,’  she  promptly  restored  the  original  vowel.  But  she 
fondly  clung  to  the  Spanish  courtesy  which  transformed  her  hus- 
band’s baptismal  name,  and  usually  spoke  of  him — in  his  absence — 
as  ‘ Don  Alvino.’  But  in  the  presence  of  his  short,  square  figure, 
his  orange  tawny  hair,  his  twinkling  gray  eyes  and  retrousse  nose, 
even  that  dominant  woman  withheld  his  title.  It  was  currently  re- 
ported at  Red  Dog  that  a distinguished  foreigner  had  one  day 
approached  Mulrady  with  the  formula,  4 1 believe  I have  the  honor 
of  addressing  Don  Alvino  Mulrady?1  4 You  kin  bet  your  boots, 
stranger,  that’s  me,’  had  returned  that  simple  hidalgo.” 

The  bishop’s  curse  seems  really  to  rest  on  the  gold,  the 
discovery  of  which  brings  misery  to  Slinn,  and  almost 
equal  misery  to  Mulrady.  They  are  rich  at  the  end  of 
the  story — Slinn  only  for  a moment  before  he  dies.  Bret 
Harte  has  given  us  one  of  his  most  charming  and  most 
true  sketches  of  life,  with  a deep  lesson.  “ Devil’s  Ford,” 
the  other  story  in  the  volume,  is  exaggerated  but  common 
place. 

Haggard:  “Jess,” 

Jess,  by  the  author  of  King  Solomons  Mines  and  She , 
has  only  one  good  quality — a graphic  picturing  of  life 
among  the  Boers,  who,  according  to  Mr.  Haggard’s  ac- 
count, have  all  the  faults  of  the  Pennsylvania  Dutch  with- 
out any  redeeming  virtues.  We  have  to  regret,  too,  an 
over-sensuousness  which  was  characteristic  of  She , and 
which  is  a blot  on  so  many  English  novels.  It  is  remarka- 
ble that  in  most  English  novels  the  God  of  Christians  is 
not  mentioned.  We  have  Fate  and  the  “Unknowable.” 
A series  of  novels  by  a great  author,  written  on  a sound 


IO 8 MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

basis  of  Christianity,  is  much  needed.  As  for  the  so- 
called  “ Catholic  novel  ” that  is  constantly  demanded,  it 
would  not  be  read  by  the  people  who  cry  out  for  it. 

Black:  “Sabina  Zembra.” 

Mr.  William  Black’s  name  recalls  pleasant  memories. 
Who  can  forget  the  delightful  heroines  of  A Daughter  of 
Heth,  and  A Princess  of  Thule , or  the  chivalric,  weird, 
young,  and  unhappy  hero  of  MacLeod  of  Dare  2 And 
therefore  a new  novel  by  a master  of  the  art  of  fiction,  to 
whom  we  owe  so  much  pleasure,  raises  expectations  of 
respite  from  “ the  cares  that  infest  the  day.”  Sabma  Zem- 
bra is  the  new  novel.  Sabina  is  the  daughter  of  Sir  An- 
thony Zembra,  a very  great  London  magnate.  Sir  Anthony 
is  rich  and  a personage  in  society.  He  objects  to  his 
eldest’s  daughter’s  going  into  a hospital  and  becoming  a 
trained  nurse.  But  Sabina  prefers  this  mode  of  life ; she 
objects  to  dinner-parties,  flower-shows,  dances,  and  the 
other  laborious  means  by  which  people  in  society  contrive 
to  make  life  intolerable.  Sir  Anthony,  therefore,  asks  her 
to  leave  his  house,  and  he  gives  her  a fair  allowance. 
After  this  he,  his  second  wife,  and  Sabina’s  step-sisters 
amuse  themselves  according  to  their  way,  and  Sabina  lives 
with  some  very  nice,  very  poor,  and  very  artistic  people. 
Sir  Anthony’s  governess  continues  to  write  accounts  of  his 
and  his  family’s  goings-in  and  comings-out  for  the  “ soci- 
ety” papers,  and  he  inspires  and  enjoys  them;  but  in 
public  he  is  understood  never  to  read  these  journals:  he 
never  sees  them  until  “ his  attention  is  called  to  them ! ” 

Sabina’s  state  of  mind  is  interesting.  We  almost  hope 
in  the  beginning  that  she  -may  become  a real  Sister  of 
Charity  instead  of  an  experimental  nurse.  But  this  is 
soon  dispelled  by  the  appearance  of  a wounded  bicycle- 
rider,  whom  Sabina  forces  Sir  Anthony  to  keep  in  his  house, 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  109 

and  whom  she  nurses.  Mr.  Black  tells  us  that  Sabina, 
working  for  the  suffering,  had  “ moments  of  exaltation.” 
“ She  would  sometimes  repeat  to  herself,  as  with  a kind 
of  ineffable  longing,”  the  mystic  stanza  from  Tennyson’s 
“St.  Agnes:” 

“ Break  up  the  heavens,  O Lord  ! and  far, 

Through  all  yon  starlight  keen, 

Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean.” 

He  thus  describes  her  state  of  mind: 

“ But  there  was  little  time  for  self-communing  during  the  continu- 
ous labor  of  the  long  day.  Nor  was  she  much  given  to  pitying  herself 
in  any  circumstances;  it  was  the  suffering  of  others  that  moved  her, 
and  here  there  was  plenty  of  that,  only  too  obvious,  all  around  her. 
Moreover,  she  was  a particularly  healthy  young  woman,  and  she 
could  bear  fatigue  better  than  any  of  her  sister  non-professionals,  al- 
though when  they  got  away  to  supper,  about  half-past  eight  or  nine, 
and  all  of  them  pretty  well  fagged  out  with  the  day’s  work,  they  used 
to  joke  her  about  her  sleepy  disposition.  It  was  rumored,  moreover, 
that  one  or  two  of  he  medical  students  who  came  about  had  cast  an 
eye  on  this  pretty,  tall,  benignant-eyed  nurse,  who  looked  so  neat  and 
smart  in  her  belted  gown  and  apron  and  cap,  and  that  they  paid  a 
good  deal  more  attention  to  her  than  to  the  patient  whose  condition 
she  had  to  report  to  the  doctor.  But  Sabie  was  impervious  to  all  that 
kind  of  thing.  It  was  only  when  she  was  with  the  other  nurses  at 
night  that  the  dimple  in  her  cheek  appeared,  and  that  she  showed 
herself — as  long  as  her  eyes  would  keep  open — blithe  and  friendly  and 
merry-hearted.  Perhaps  she  was  only  a woman’s  woman,  after  all.” 

The  appearance  of  the  young  bicycle-rider  changes  all 
this.  Walter  Lindsay,  a chivalrous  and  generally  admi- 
rable young  artist,  becomes  a desperate  admirer  of  Miss 
Zembra,  after  the  manner  of  William  Black’s  heroes. 
But  William  Black’s  heroes  have  now  a certain  old-fash- 
ioned flavor — a flavor  of  the  sesthetic  period  that  pro- 
duced Oscar  Wilde — and  all  old-fashioned  things  seem 


no 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


unreal  when  introduced  into  modern  life.  In  this  way 
the  period  of  Oscar  Wilde  is  really  more  archaic  than  that 
of  Queen  Anne,  because  the  latter  is  more  in  fashion  than 
the  former.  Walter  Lindsay,  like  most  literary  men  and 
artists,  is  nothing  of  a Bohemian ; Henri  Murger  would 
have  found  no  pleasure  in  him.  He  is  an  intense  young 
man,  as  eager  to  sacrifice  everything  he  possesses  to  the  lady 
of  his  thoughts  as  Ser  Federigo  was  to  kill  his  falcon. 
Nevertheless  Sabina  marries  the  bicycle-rider,  and,  instead 
of  becoming  the  wife  of  a famous  London  artist  with  a stu- 
dio in  peacock-blue  and  gold,  she  sinks  into  an  appendage 
to  the  thoroughly  selfish  bicycle-rider,  Mr.  Fred  Foster. 
Sabina  lacks  the  interest  with  which  Mr.  Black  usually 
surrounds  his  heroines.  In  fact  like  Mr.  Hardy  and  Mr. 
Blackmore,  he  has  lost  that  peculiarity,  delicacy,  and  in- 
describable quality  which  made  him  famous.  Fred  Fos- 
ter’s gradual  descent  from  mere  idleness  to  active  crimi- 
nality is  well  described.  Sabina  is  forced  to  endure  the 
amusements  of  her  husband,  whose  diversions  are  those 
of  the  ordinary  worthless  young  man  about  town.  Her 
husband  cannot  understand  her  not  being  able  to  join  in 
his  delight  in  London  music-halls,  where  even  hereditary 
legislators  have  been  known  to  disport  themselves.  Mr. 
Black  gives  several  examples  of  the  kind  of  gayety  in  which 
the  patrons  of  these  places  delight.  One  can  easily  sym- 
pathize with  Sabina’s  disgust  as  she  sits  in  a box  with  two 
of  her  husband’s  male  friends. 

Sabina,  high-spirited,  high-minded,  suffers  as  her  hus- 
band falls  lower  and  lower.  We  are  moved  by  the  fear 
that  her  husband  may  break  her  heart  by  claiming  her 
child.  But  as  a rule,  though  the  novel  is  well  conceived, 
Sabina  does  not  excite  that  intense  sympathy  which  she 
ought  to  excite.  We  must  say  of  William  Black,  as  we 
said  of  the  author  of  Springhaven  and  The  Woodlanders , 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


ill 


that  he  ought  not  to  write  another  story  until  he  can 
equal  his  best  work. 

Mitchell:  "Roland  Blake.” 

Dr.  S.  Weir  Mitchell’s  Roland  Blake  (Houghton,  Mifflin 
& Co.)  opens  with  a spirited  picture  of  army  life  during 
the  late  war.  Dr.  Mitchell  has  not  so  far  received  the 
appreciation  he  deserves  as  a novelist.  Unlike  most  mod- 
ern story-tellers,  he  has  a story  to  tell,  and  he  tells  it  with 
directness.  For  instance,  in  the  first  chapter  the  reader 
is  put  at  once  into  the  action  of  the  story;  and  at  once 
he  gets  the  clue  both  to  Roland  Blake’s  manly  and  frank 
character  and  to  that  of  the  mercenary  and  treacherous 
evil  genius  of  the  book.  Dr.  Mitchell’s  scene  is  laid  dur- 
ing the  war,  and  the  color  of  that  time  is  vividly  impressed 
on  the  reader’s  mind.  This  ability  to  show  the  spirit  of 
an  epoch  and  to  make  us  live  in  it  is  an  evidence  of  high 
artistic  talent,  if  not  of  genius.  The  careful  study  of 
Octopia  Darnell’s  love  for  her  brother  is  a finer  piece  of 
analysis  than  one  finds  in  Mr.  James’  or  Mr.  Howells’ 
over-elaboration  of  the  minor  emotions  that  end  a long 
way  off  in  action.  Octopia  Darnell  is  a Southern  woman 
living  in  New  York  on  the  bounty  of  an  old  lady.  Her 
brother  Richard  is  in  the  Confederate  army.  She  believes 
him  to  be  a patriot,  while  he  is  really  a spy,  selling  Con- 
federate secrets  to  the  Northern  army.  She,  loving  noth- 
ing on  earth  except  him  and  herself — but  herself  less — is 
willing  to  commit  mean  and  even  criminal  actions  for  his 
sake ; but  when  he  proposes  the  very  treachery  she 
thought  it  possible  for  her  to  do,  she  starts  back.  She 
would  have  committed  sin  after  sin  for  him,  because  she 
believed  that  he  was  incapable  of  a dishonorable  act. 
When  she  discovers  her  brother’s  baseness,  Dr.  Mitchell 
tells,  with  keen  insight,  the  condition  of  this  wilful,  con- 
tradictory, and  yet  not  ignoble  woman: 


1 1 2 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


“ If  she  only  could  have  thrown  herself  on  some  good  woman’s 
breast  and  sobbed  out  her  confession  of  regrets,  remorses,  and  sor- 
rowful disappointments,  it  would  have  been  what  she  needed.  There 
was  no  one  she  could  seek,  and  her  religion  had  been  but  a form,  and 
was  commonly  put  away,  like  a marker,  between  the  leaves  of  her 
prayer-book.  Why  confession  to  another  should  be  comforting  is 
as  yet  one  of  the  unanswered  questions  of  the  human  heart.” 

It  is  one  of  Dr.  Mitchell’s  best  characteristics  that  he 
gives  us  the  result  of  his  study  of  human  nature.  He  does 
not  go  through  the  contortions  of  analysis  in  public.  He 
is  not  one  of  those  literary  gymnasts  who  lift  light  weights 
with  many  simulated  muscular  strainings.  Evidences  of 
thought  and  observation  of  mankind  flash  every  now  and 
then  like  brilliants  from  his  pages.  After  the  climax,  when 
Olive,  the  very  pleasant  and  unaffected  heroine,  and  her 
betrothed  show  profound  charity  for  the  wretched  Dar- 
nell, Dr.  Mitchell  says  of  Roland  Blake:  “A  less  ready 
and  less  finely  made  man  would  have  caused  cruel  mis- 
chief. Men  of  practical  capacity  who  are  also  imagina- 
tive are  advantaged  thereby:  large  ranges  of  the  possible 
lie  open  to  their  reason,  and  the  improbable  is  not  set 
aside  as  foolish.” 

Roland  Blake  is  an  American  novel,  although  the  eagle 
is  not  made  to  scream,  and  neither  apology  nor  defiance 
is  assumed  towards  our  English  neighbors.  The  produc- 
tion of  such  works  is  what  our  literature  needs,  to  save  it 
from  becoming  hopelessly  Anglicized  or  being  deluged 
with  snobbery. 

Jeffries  : “Amaryllis  at  the  Fair.” 

Amaryllis  at  the  Fair  (Harper  & Brothers)  is  a story  by 
Richard  Jeffries.  The  influence  of  the  reading  of  Ameri- 
can humorous  writers  is  marked  here — an  unusual  thing 
in  an  English  novel.  Mr.  Jeffries  tells  of  an  untrained 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  II 3 

girl  living  among  coarse,  selfish,  and  semi-pagan  rustics. 
If  there  are  many  such  people  and  country-places  as  Mr. 
Jeffries  tells  of  in  his  blunt  way,  that  country  will,  in  no 
long  time,  need  to  be  re-converted  to  the  rudiments  of 
Christianity. 

Lyall : “ Knight-Errant.” 

There  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  moral  intention  of 
Edna  Lyall’s  books.  It  is  good.  In  Knight-Errant  (Har- 
per & Bros.)  we  have  a mixture  of  Don  Quixote  and  The 
Heir  of  Reddy ffe.  The  hero  of  Knight- Errant  is  the  kind 
of  man  that  good  women  would  like  all  men  to  be,  but 
whom  even  good  men  would  find  rather  uncomfortable. 
Still,  the  world  is  better  for  such  ideals  as  Edna  Lyall  holds 
up  to  it.  They  may  be  somewhat  sentimental — in  mas- 
culine eyes  they  may  even  appear  somewhat  unreal  and 
a little  absurd,  as  women’s  heroes  in  books  generally  do. 
But  they  prove  the  truth  that  women  admire  nobility  of 
character  in  men,  as  they  admire  and  honor  purity  among 
themselves.  They  are  a rebuke  to  that  cynicism  which 
the  fem7nes-auteurs  encourage — the  belief  of  the  prince  of 
cynics,  that  “ every  woman  is  at  heart  a rake.”  Carlo 
Donati,  the  “ knight-errant,”  is  the  son  of  an  Italian  pa- 
triot— one  of  those  Italian  patriots  one  hears  of,  on  whose 
dying  face  there  had  been  that  “ look  of  faith  in  renun- 
ciation which  was  stamped  upon  the  face  of  his  teacher, 
Mazzini.”  That  “ look  ” is  an  old  “ property  ” with  lady- 
novelists.  It  has  been  ascribed  to  Garibaldi,  to  Cavour, 
to  the  charming  and  beautiful  Victor  Emmanuel  himself. 
It  is  a little  worn ; it  ought  to  be  put  away  with  the  “ straw- 
berry mark  ” of  our  ancestors.  Miss  Lyall  wants  the  gen- 
tle Italian  temperament  for  her  hero,  but  she  must  make 
him  a Protestant.  This  js  the  improbable  manner  in 
which  she  manages  it; 


H4 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


“They  lived  all  the  year  round  at  the  Villa  Bruno,  and  a kindly 
old  priest  at  Pozzuoli  taught  the  boy  until  he  was  old  enough  to  go 
in  every  day  to  the  Ginnasio  at  Naples.  Here  he  entered  into  his  life- 
long friendship  with  Enrico  Ritter,  and  learned  much  through  his  in- 
tercourse with  the  German  family,  whose  house  became  his  headquar- 
ters when  he  was  in  Naples.  The  Ritters,  deeming  the  country  life 
dull  for  the  boy,  were  constantly  inviting  him  to  stay  with  them,  and 
giving  him  brief  snatches  of  gayety.  Nominally  Lutherans,  the 
worthy  Germans  were  practically  materialists,  and  it  was  largely  ow- 
ing to  his  visits  at  the  Ritters’  that  Carlo  first  became  dissatisfied  with 
the  religion  in  which  his  mother  had  educated  him.  Equally  was  he 
dissatisfied  with  the  conventional  acceptance  of  Christianity  and  the 
real  scepticism  which  prevailed  in  the  Ritter  household.  For  a year 
or  two  he  puzzled  his  brain  over  the  vexed  question  ; finally  he  took 
the  decisive  step  and  resolved  to  go  no  more  to  Church.  This  caused 
much  pain  to  his  mother  and  to  his  old  friend,  Father  Cristoforo  ; 
and  though  plunging  deeply  into  that  sort  of  worship  at  the  shrine  of 
beautiful  Nature  which  is  the  reaction  from  formalism,  he  felt  a want 
in  his  life.” 

He  meets  an  attractive  English  girl,  and — 

“After  a time  he  formally  joined  the  English  Church.  Of  course 
he  had  some  opposition  to  encounter,  but  though  his  old  friend  the 
priest  shook  his  head  sorrowfully,  and  though  his  mother  shed  tears, 
and  though  the  Ritters  chaffed  him  good-humoredly,  his  happiness 
was  too  great  to  be  marred  by  such  things  ; besides,  they  all  loved 
him  so  well  that  they  soon  pardoned  the  obnoxious  step  which  he  had 
taken,  and  did  their  best  to  forget  that  he  was  not  as  they  were.” 

And  now  Miss  Lyall  has  cleared  the  deck.  She  could 
never  have  trusted  a Catholic  hero  to  be  as  good — and, 
in  parenthesis,  let  us  say  as  “ goody  ” — as  Donati  becomes. 
Most  Italians  who  know  their  Italy  would  look  with  con- 
tempt on  one  of  their  fellow-citizens  joining  the  English 
Church  without  some  solid  material  consideration;  but 
Miss  Lyall  prefers  to  forget  this.  Anita,  Carious  sister, 
has  married  the  manager  of  an  opera  troupe.  Anita  re- 
mains a Catholic,  and  is,  therefore,  liable  to  temptation. 
Her  husband  is  a cross-grained  person,  and  he  is  not 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  1:5 

always  polite  to  her,  although  she  is  his  prima  donna. 
Comerio,  the  first  baritone,  who  is  also  a Catholic,  and 
who  has  not  had  the  advantage  of  a Mazzinian  training, 
makes  love  off  the  stage  to  Anita.  Carlo,  therefore,  gives 
up  the  legal  profession,  which  he  has  studied,  and  adopts 
the  dramatic  profession,  which  he  has  not  studied,  and 
becomes  first  baritone,  in  order  to  prevent  Comerio  from 
making  love  to  his  sister  on  or  off  the  stage.  He  makes 
a great  success  as  Valentine  in  Faust.  His  rendering  of 
Valentine’s  death-scene  might  well  be  adopted  by  some 
of  the  present  Valentines.  Of  course  it  is  impossible 
that  Miss  Lyall’s  hero  could  have  bounded  into  success 
without  hard  work  and  long  experience,  and  the  young 
person  moved  to  imitate  Carlo’s  example  will  soon  regret 
the  experiment.  Nevertheless,  Miss  Lyall’s  idea  of  how 
Valentine’s  death-scene  should  be  done  is  good,  and,  car- 
ried out,  would  redeem  a situation  from  the  depths  to 
which  it  is  ordinarily  dragged : 

“Both  the  singing  and  the  acting  in  the  death-scene  were  ex- 
ceptionally fine  ; the  mingling  of  wrath  and  grief,  denunciation  and 
reproachful  love,  which  he  managed  to  convey  in  his  last  words  with 
Margherita,  appealed  to  all,  while  at  the  end  he  produced  a novel 
effect.  With  panting  breath,  and  with  more  of  sorrow  than  of  an- 
ger, he  sang,  k Tu  morrai  tra  cenci  vil. ’ Then,  suddenly  diverted 
from  the  present,  he  pressed  to  his  lips  the  cross  on  his  sword-hilt 
which  one  of  his  fellow-soldiers  held  towards  him,  and  afterwards, 
turning  again  towards  Margherita  with  a look  so  beautiful  that  once 
seen  it  could  never  be  forgotten,  sang  with  a depth  of  tenderness  the 
brief  ‘ I die  for  thee,’  kissed  her  bowed  head,  with  a sort  of  trium- 
phant resignation  gasped  the  last  ‘ Like  a soldier  I die,’  and  fell  back 
lifeless.” 

Carlo,  singing  and  acting,  follows  Anita  and  her  husband 
around  the  world,  cutting  out  the  wicked  Comerio  when 
he  can.  Anita  grows  weary  of  him,  and  it  is  no  wonder. 
Why  he  could  not  have  let  her  husband  protect  or  brought 


1 1 6 MODERN  NO  VELS  AND  NO  V ELI  STS. 

her  to  a sense  of  her  duty  by  talking  a little  common  sense 
to  her  does  not  appear.  He  suffers  and  makes  sacrifices 
until  Anita  dies,  singing  a snatch  from  Faust : 

“ Oh , del  del  angeli  immortali! 

Deh,  mi  guidate  con  voi  lassu.” 

This  over,  Carlo  marries  the  attractive  English  girl  who 
had  “ converted  ” him.  Comerio,  the  wicked  and  venge- 
ful, is  disposed  of.  But  one  cannot  help  thinking  that 
Carlo’s  exasperating  Church-of-England  goodness  must 
have  helped  to  disgust  the  wretched  Comerio  with  that 
aspect  of  virtue.  And,  as  he  saw  no  other — being  ac- 
quainted only  with  papistical  Italians,  who  are  notoriously 
wicked — he  continued  to  go  to  the  bad. 

Crawford:  “ Saracinesca.” 

Mr.  Isaacs , that  curious  Occidental-Oriental  romance, 
gave  Mr.  F.  Marion  Crawford  a celebrity  which  might 
easily  have  been  evanescent  had  his  first  book,  according 
to  the  rule,  been  his  best.  But  his  latest  book  is  his  best. 
Saracmesca — before  alluded  to  in  these  articles,  but  now 
published  for  the  first  time  in  America — ought  to  have  a 
phenomenal  success.  It  has  all  the  qualities  of  a good 
novel — dramatic  action  without  exaggeration,  natural  play 
of  character,  truth  to  nature  and  experience,  a full  knowl- 
edge of  life,  and  that  artistic  quality,  or  perhaps  we  might 
almost  say  that  moral  quality,  that  makes  the  reader  feel 
safe  in  Mr.  Crawford’s  hands.  For  instance,  Corona,  the 
stately  Duchess  of  Astradente,  is  never  for  a moment  un- 
true to  the  old  duke  with  whom  she  has  made  a marriage 
of  interest;  although  she  knows  that  the  young  Prince 
Saracinesca  loves  her,  she  saves  him  and  herself  from 
what  might  have  been  ruin  in  every  sense.  Corona  con- 
quers temptation  by  prayer.  The  various  shades  of  Ro- 
man politics  are  drawn  by  a sure  hand.  Mr.  Crawford  is 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  1 17 

the  first  writer  in  the  English  language  to  present  tableaux 
of  modern  Roman  politics  with  decent  impartiality  and 
conservative  decency.  We  have  had  enough  of  Italian 
carbonari  aureoled  in  Liberal  red  fire.  We  have  to  thank 
Mr.  Crawford  for  a new  view  of  Roman  society,  but,  above 
all,  for  a very  great  novel.  The  book  has  no  nastiness  in 
it.  We  have  already  given  extracts  showing  its  wonder- 
fully vivid  power  of  description  and  the  author’s  just  views 
of  Roman  society  before  the  spoliation. 

The  Duke  d’Astradente,  the  old  and  the  young  Princes 
Saracinesca,  Valderno  and  Del  Ferici,  represent  different 
political  opinions.  Del  Ferici  is  an  ultra-liberal,  a treach- 
erous conspirator,  whom  Cardinal  Antonelli  allows  to  re- 
main in  Rome  because  he  fancies  wrongly  that  such  con- 
spirators are  harmless.  Del  Ferici  and  the  younger  Prince 
Saracinesca,  who  is  a large  landed  proprietor,  talk  of  the 
reforms  we  used  to  hear  so  much  about.  The  prince 
meets  Del  Ferici’s  proposals  on  the  subject  of  improving 
the  Campagna  with  the  assertion  that  things  have  changed 
since  the  Campagna  was  a series  of  villas.  Del  Ferici 
says:  “ Why  are  the  conditions  so  different?  I do  not 
see.  Here  is  the  same  undulating  country,  the  same  cli- 
mate— ” 

“ ‘And  twice  as  much  water,’  interrupted  Giovanni.  4 You  for- 
get that  the  Campagna  is  very  low,  and  that  the  rivers  in  it  have  risen 
very  much.  There  are  parts  of  ancient  Rome  now  laid  bare  which 
lie  below  the  present  water-mark  of  the  Tiber.  If  the  city  were  built 
upon  its  old  level  much  of  it  would  be  constantly  flooded.  The 
rivers  have  risen  and  have  swamped  the  country.  Do  you  think  any 
amount  of  law  or  energy  would  drain  this  fever-stricken  plain  into  the 
sea  ? I do  not.  Do  you  think  that  if  I could  be  persuaded  that  the 
land  could  be  improved  into  fertility,  I would  hesitate  at  any  expendi- 
ture in  my  power  to  reclaim  the  miles  of  desert  my  father  and  I own 
here  ? The  plain  is  a series  of  swamps  and  stone-quarries.  In  one 
place  you  find  the  rock  below  the  surface,  and  it  burns  up  in  summer; 


ii  8 


MODERN  NOVELS  AA7D  NOVELISTS 


a hundred  yards  further  you  find  a bog  hundreds  of  feet  deep  which 
even  in  summer  is  never  dry/  P h 

. SUggested  1)61  Ferici,  who  listened  patiently  enough 

supposing  the  government  passed  a law  forcing  all  of  you  propde- 
tors  to  plant  trees  and  dig  ditches,  it  would  have  some  effect  - 

1 he  ,a^  cannot  force  us  to  sacrifice  men’s  lives.  The  Trap- 
p monks  at  Tre  Fontane  are  trying,  and  dying  by  the  score.  Do 

you  mk  I or  any  other  Roman  would  send  peasants  to  such  a place 
or  could  induce  them  to  go  ? ’ ” a pl  ’ 

I:a,ter’  Dd  Ferici’  ^swering  Saracinesca  s statement 
that  he  does  not  see  why  an  intelligent  few  should  be  ruled 
y an  ignorant  majority,  says  that  the  majority  in  Italy 
wou  e e ucated.  Saracinesca  asks  whether  school- 
masters  make  good  governors. 

“‘The  schoolmasters,’  he  says,  ‘would  certainly . have  the 
advantage  in  education  ; do  you  mean  to  say  they  would  Lake  better 

” tCt°r  tha",  the  ““  number  Clemen  who  ca  „ 
name  all  the  cities  and  rivers  in  Italy  or  translate  a page  of  Latin 

actuTe  * m-Stake’  bUt  Wh°  Understand  the  conditions  of  property  by 
r /e,r'enCe’  aS  n°  schoolmaster  can  understand  them  ? Educa- 
te rf  the  kmd  which  i.  of  any  the  government  of 

a nauon  means  the  teaching  of  human  motives  of  hunfanizinT  deas 

oLlZ:  rr  Whereby  the  maj°rity  °f  e,ectors  -n  distinguish ^ the 
elect.  1,  S "eSty  COmm°n  SCnSe  !n  the  candidate  ‘hey  wish  to 

It  is  refreshing  to  find  sane  views  of  human  conduct 
put  into  such  a powerful  form  as  this  novel.  Saracinesca , 
printed  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  has  been  received  en- 
thusiastically in  Great  Britain.  Mr.  Crawford  has  well 
employed  his  great  talent  and  his  unimpeachable  style  in 
ie  ping  to  strengthen  the  growing  reaction  against  the 
mad  policy  of  Continental  theorists 
The  figures  in  Mr.  Crawford’s  comecy  move  with  ease 
and  naturalness.  Corona  is  drawn  with  the  breadth  and 
nobleness  of  womanhood  worthy  of  the  author  who  painted 


MODERN  NO  VELS  AND  NO  V ELI  STS,  1 1 9 

Diane  in  that  other  not  so  unobjectionable  book,  To  Lee- 
ward. Mr.  Crawford  knows  how  magnificent  are  the 
effects  of  religion  on  characters  naturally  noble,  and  we 
see  this  in  Corona.  All  the  late  books  by  celebrated 
writers  of  fiction  have  been  disappointments.  Mr.  Craw- 
ford’s Saracinesca  alone  is  an  exception.  He  has  doubtless 
reached  his  acme  in  it.  It  would  be  impossible  to  go 
higher  without  getting  abreast  of  Thackeray,  Manzoni, 
and — with  a difference  in  quality- — Nathaniel  Hawthorne 
at  their  best. 

Two  kind  correspondents  have  favored  the  author  with 
a warning  and  a suggestion.  One  warns  him  that  it  is 
dangerous  to  mention  bad  books.  The  other,  a reverend 
gentleman,  asks  him  to  be  careful  to  write  about  books 
that  have  an  “ immoral  tendency  under  a specious  ap- 
pearance. Your  notices  of  Dr.  Cupid  and  a translation 
from  Flaubert  have  helped  me  to  advise  some  of  my  peni- 
tents who  asked  me  whether  those  fashionable  novels 
should  be  read.” 

The  present  writer  is  not  addressing  very  young  people. 
He  believes  that  the  time  has  arrived  when  Catholic 
American  literature  should  begin  to  look  beyond  a narrow 
space  walled  by  premium-books  filled  with  goody-goody 
stories  which  no  clever  young  person  dreams  of  reading, 
and  he  desires  to  do  something  toward  supplying  a stand- 
ard of  judgment,  moral  and  literary,  which  may  be  of  use 
to  those  who  run  and  read,  and  consequently  suffer  from 
that  mental  dyspepsia  following  the  attempted  assimila- 
tion of  unwholesome  and  undigested  food. 

Montauban  : “ The  Cruise  of  the  Woman-Hater.” 

G.  Montauban’ s The  Cruise  of  the  Woman-Hater  (Bos- 
ton: Ticknor  & Co.)  tells  of  a tiresome  voyage  during 
which  a poor  and  amiable  widow  converted  a cynical 


120 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


hater  of  the  female  sex  to  that  pity  which  is  akin  to  loye, 
and  finally  married  him. 

Collins  ; “ Little  Novels.” 

Wilkie  Collins’  Little  Novels  (London:  Chatto  & Win- 
dus)  is  a collection  of  ingenious  stories,  told  with  some  of 
the  marvellous  skill  that  made  the  author  of  The  Woman 
in  White  famous.  Villainy  is  frustrated  by  devious  ways, 
and  a mind  must  be  much  preoccupied  indeed  that  can- 
not for  a time  lose  itself  in  Mr.  Collins’  ingenious  combi- 
nations. Mr.  Collins  does  not  favor  us  with  any  kicked 
monk,  and  there  is  little  of  that  coarseness  which  intrudes 
into  several  of  his  earlier  stories. 

Dostoieffsky : “ Crime  and  its  Punishment.” 

We  must  protest  against  the  further  introduction  of 
Russian  novels.  Crime  and  its  Punishment , by  Theodor 
Dostoievsky  (New  York:  Thomas  Y.  Crowell),  is  one  of 
the  gloomiest  of  the  gloomy  works  of  a writer  persistently 
puffed  by  certain  critics.  It  is  easy  to  understand  that 
the  Russians,  oppressed  and  over-ridden  by  administrative 
power,  liable  at  an  hour’s  notice  to  be  forced  to  Siberia, 
and  in  the  grip  of  a government  which,  among  a semi-bar- 
barous people,  has  itself  a difficult  part  to  play,  can  be 
tempted  to  despair.  This  is  the  more  easy  to  understand 
because  the  degradation  of  the  Russian  Church  has  left 
little  that  is  elevating  in  the  remnants  of  truth  they  have. 
One  would  think  that  some  of  these  “ great  ” Russian  nov- 
elists— Tolstoi,  Turgueneff,  Dostoieffsky — would  endeavor 
to  raise  the  hearts  of  their  people  to  better  things,  or,  at 
least,  to  brighten  their  lives  with  those  flashes  of  wit  and 
humor  which,  in  the  darkest  days  of  Ireland  and  Irish 
literature,  have  never  been  wanting  to  a people  as  horri- 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


121 


bly  oppressed  as  the  Russians  have  ever  been.  But  they 
do  not.  They  paint  life  in  its  darkest  and  most  revolting 
colors.  This  “ masterpiece  ” of  Dostoieffsky’s  is  a book 
no  careful  mother  could  give  to  her  daughters,  no  pru- 
dent father  advise  his  son  to  read.  There  is  no  attractive 
description  of  vice  in  it ; on  the  contrary,  vice  and  virtue 
alike  are  presented  with  horrible  grimness.  The  “ saint  ” 
of  the  book  is  a girl  called  Sonia,  whose  father  is  a drunk- 
ard of  the  most  besotted  variety.  Sonia  adopts  a vicious 
life  to  help  her  neglected  brothers  and  sisters,  who  are 
pathetically  represented  by  Dostoieffsky  as  living  on  the 
wages  of  her  sin.  Nevertheless,  we  are  assured  over  and 
over  again  of  Sonia’s  great  purity  of  soul,  and  her  piety 
under  the  circumstances  is  something  to  wonder  at.  The 
English  edition  of  this  book  has  been  alluded  to  before. 
It  is  regrettable  that  there  should  be  an  American  edi- 
tion. What  is  the  use  of  a literature,  however  realistic  it 
pretends  to  be,  which  strikes  no  chord  of  hope,  which 
paints  humanity  with  its  eyes  to  earth  and  without  one  ray 
of  that  divine  light  that  makes  the  highest  works  of  art 
joys  for  ever? 

The  hero  of  Crwie  and  its  Punishment  is  a student, 
Raskolnikoff,  who  has  murdered  an  old  woman  for  her 
money.  He  is  pursued  by  remorse,  and  gradually  this  re- 
morse undermines  what  sanity  of  body  and  mind  he  pos- 
sesses. After  a period  of  inward  turmoil  and  outward 
fever  he  is  sent  to  Siberia.  Sonia  follows  him.  Sonia, 
who  in  other  days  has  talked  to  him  of  the  raising  of  Laz- 
arus, sees  him  returning  to  an  affection  for  the  New  Tes- 
tament. The  book  ends  with  the  promise  of  another,  in 
which  the  married  life  of  this  wretched  creature  and  Sonia 
will  be  described. 

“ 4 Why,’  ” asks  the  murderer,  Raskolnikoff,  in  one  of  his  solilo- 
quies, “ ‘ did  that  silly  fellow  Razoumikhin  attack  Socialists  just  now? 


122 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


They  are  hard-working  business-men.  They  work  for  “ the  common 
weal.”  I wish  to  live  myself,  otherwise  it  would  be  better  not  to 
exist  at  all.  I have  no  desire  to  neglect  a starving  mother  and  clutch 
the  money  I have  by  me,  on  the  pretext  that  on  some  day  or  other 
everybody  will  be  happy.  As  some  of  them  say,  I contribute  my 
stone  towards  the  building  up  of  universal  happiness,  and  that  must 
be  enough  to  set  my  mind  at  ease.  Hah  ! hah  ! Why,  then,  have 
you  forgotten  me  ? As  I have  but  a certain  time  to  live,  I intend  to 
have  my  share  of  happiness  forthwith.  After  all,  I am  only  so  much 
atheistical  vermin — nothing  more.  Yes,  I am,  de  facto , so  much  ver- 
min— first,  from  the  fact  that  I am  now  considering  whether  I am  so  ; 
secondly,  because  during  a whole  month  I have  been  pestering 
Divine  Providence,  taking  it  to  witness  that  I was  contemplating  this 
attempt,  not  with  a view  to  material  gains,  but  with  ulterior  purposes 
— hah  ! hah  ! Thirdly,  because,  in  the  act  of  doing,  I was  anxious  to 
proceed  with  as  much  justice  as  possible.  Amongst  various  kinds  of 
vermin  I selected  the  most  noisome,  and  in  destroying  it  I determined 
only  to  take  just  enough  to  give  me  a suitable  start  in  life,  neither 
more  nor  less.’  ” 

After  a few  chapters  of  similar  cogitations,  and  the  con- 
stant iteration  of  the  misery  of  everybody  mentioned  in 
the  book,  one  feels  as  glad  to  get  away  from  it  as  if  one 
were  creeping  out  of  a noisome  tunnel.  Dostoyevsky’s 
Russians  are  only  gay  when  they  are  drunk,  and  then 
their  drunkenness  verges  on  madness  and  brutality. 
“ Time-serving  courtiers  and  apostate  teachers,”  to  repeat 
a phrase  of  Cardinal  Manning’s,  have  indeed  left  a heri- 
tage of  woe  on  the  lands  they  tore  from  the  church.  There 
seems  to  be  no  consolation  for  the  Russian  in  his  schism. 
If  he  casts  aside  the  forms  and  ceremonies  of  his  enslaved 
religion  he  becomes  materialistic  and  superstitiously  athe- 
istical; if  he  accepts  the  New  Testament  he  adapts  the 
apparent  and  humanly-interpreted  teaching  of  our  Lord  to 
his  communistic  theories.  Count  Tolstoi,  for  instance,  pre- 
tends to  imitate  the  earthly  life  of  our  Lord,  literally  ac- 
cepting his  precepts,  but  at  the  same  time  stopping  with 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 123 

earth.  The  Resurrection  has  no  meaning  for  him,  and 
he  does  not  believe  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul. 

Meredith:  “ Beauchamp’s  Career.” 

Mr.  George  Meredith  is  not  a realist.  He  does  not  take 
crude  material  simply  because  it  is  at  hand,  and  make 
use  of  it  on  the  theory  that  one  thing  is  as  good  as  another 
to  write  about.  He  may  be  said  to  belong  to  the  psycho- 
logical school  of  fiction.  He  has  the  keenness  of  Mr. 
James  or  Mr.  Howells,  but  he  does  not  waste  his  powers 
of  analysis  on  petty  emotions.  His  English  is  Saxon  and 
solid,  with  waving  lights  of  Celtic  wit  playing  over  it. 
Mr.  Meredith’s  novels  are  caviare  to  the  general,  because 
his  strength  lies  in  his  style  rather  than  in  his  fable.  He 
has  the  directness  of  Charles  Reade — to  whom  he  is  not 
without  some  superficial  resemblance — with  a delicacy  of 
perception  which  Charles  Reade  did  not  possess.  The 
people  he  describes  are  of  the  class  in  which  Mr.  Anthony 
Trollope  delighted,  but  they  have  thoughts  and  aspira- 
tions beyond  any  Mr.  Trollope  ever  credited  them  with. 
Beauchamp' s Career  (Boston:  Roberts  Bros.)  is  the  story 
of  a young  Radical  of  aristocratic  family,  who  goes  through 
the  ordinary  routine  of  a young  English  aristocrat.  It 
must  be  admitted  that,  as  clever  and  keen  as  Mr.  Mere- 
dith is,  his  people  interest  us  less  than  his  manner  of  tell- 
ing about  them.  He  is  a scholar,  and  possessed  of  a style 
which  flashes  with  as  many  jewel-like  points  as  an  essay 
of  Montaigne’s.  Nevertheless,  Beauchamp  seems  to  be  a 
great  deal  of  a fool,  as  is  usual  with  the  heroes  of  novels. 
He  falls  in  love  with  a French  girl,  Renee,  whose  elegant 
and  refined  Legitimist  friends  are  described  with  true 
understanding.  He  almost  marries  her;  then  he  meets 
an  English  maiden;  he  almost  marries  her.  Finally  he 
marries  the  third  English  girl,  protesting  against  having 


124 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


any  religious  ceremony.  After  this  he  is  drowned  in  sav- 
ing a boy’s  life.  There  is  a fine  touch  when  his  uncle, 
Lord  Romney,  searches  for  the  body: 

“ A torch  lit  up  Lord  Romney’s  face  as  he  stepped  ashore. 
‘The  flood  has  played  us  a trick,’  he  said.  4 We  want  more  drags, 
or  with  the  next  ebb  the  body  may  be  lost  for  days  in  this  infernal 
water.’  The  mother  of  the  rescued  boy  sobbed  : ‘ O my  lord  ! my 
lord  ! ’ and  dropped  on  her  knees. 

“ 4 What’s  this?’  the  earl  said,  drawing  Ins  nand  away  from  the 
woman’s  clutch  at  it.  ‘ She’s  the  mother,  my  lord,’  several  explained. 

4 4 4 Mother  of  what  ? ’ 

“ 4 My  boy  ! ’ the  woman  cried,  and  dragged  the  urchin  to  Lord 
Romney’s  feet,  cleaning  her  boy’s  face  with  her  apron. 

“ All  the  lights  in  the  ring  were  turned  on  the  head  of  the  boy. 
Dr.  Shrapnel’s  eyes  and  Lord  Romney’s  fell  on  the  abashed  little 
creature.  The  boy  struck  out  both  arms  to  get  his  fists  against  his 
eyelids. 

“ 4 This  is  what  we  have  in  exchange  for  Beauchamp  ! ’ 

“ It  was  not  uttered,  but  it  was  visible  in  the  blank  stare  at  one 
another  of  the  two  men  who  loved  Beauchamp,  after  they  had  ex- 
amined the  insignificant  bit  of  mud-bank  life  remaining  in  this  world 
in  place  of  him.” 

Meredith’s  novels  have  increased  in  popularity  of  late, 
and  to  admire  or  not  to  admire  Meredith  is  as  great  a 
test  of  cultivation  in  some  circles  as  admiration  of  Brown- 
ing is  in  others.  There  are  situations  in  his  books  to  be 
praised  rather  from  the  point  of  view  of  dramatic  art  than 
from  the  important  one  of  strict  morality.  Renee’s  flight 
from  her  husband,  and  her  taking  refuge  with  Beauchamp 
because  her  husband,  the  old  marquis,  had  insulted  her 
by  “loving  her,”  is  neither  moral  nor  reasonable,  though 
Mr.  Meredith  seems  to  think  that  she  deserves  the  sym- 
pathy of  the  reader.  The  proprieties  are  saved  by  the 
earl’s  housekeeper’s  assuming  to  be  his  wife,  and  taking 
the  afflicted  marquise  under  her  wing  until  her  husband 
claims  her. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 125 

“ Strange  Adventures  of  Dr.  Quies.” 

The  Strange  Adventures  of  Dr.  Quies , translated  from 
the  French  by  John  Lillie  and  Mrs.  Cashel  Hoey  (New 
York:  Harper  & Bros.),  is  one  of  those  impossible  but 
entirely  delightful  stories  which  one  often  finds  in  French, 
with  very  quaint  pictures.  Dr.  Quies  is  a “ scientist,” 
one  of  the  laziest  and  fattest  of  men,  hating  travel,  yet 
obliged  by  the  malice  of  another  “ scientist  ” to  “ move 
on”  like  the  unhappy  Jo  in  Bleak  House.  It  is  pleasant 
and  amusing,  conceived  and  carried  out  in  the  spirit  of 
the  archest  humor. 

Braddon:  “ Like  and  Unlike/' 

Warden:  “ Scheherezade.” 

Two  English  reprinted  novels  are  Miss  Braddon’ s Like 
and  Unlike  and  Miss  Florence  Warden’s  Scheherezade. 
Like  and  Unlike  is  a story  of  adultery.  It  purports  to  be 
a description  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  good  Eng- 
lish society.  In  spite  of  the  luxurious  surroundings  of 
most  of  the  personages  in  it,  they  are  very  ill-bred  people. 
They  take  tea  and  they  break  the  Sixth  Commandment, 
and  Miss  Braddon’s  verbiage  cannot  conceal  the  dreadful 
vulgarity.  “ Since  France  has  become  a republic  every 
thing  new  has  been  detestable,”  Lady  Treducey  says  in 
this  book,  “ and  England  is  very  little  better  than  a repub- 
lic. All  our  fashions  have  an  American  taint.  The  day 
is  fast  coming  when  London  and  Paris  will  be  only  sub- 
urbs of  New  York.”  If  reprints  of  English  novels  con- 
tinue to  flood  us  New  York  will  soon  be  only  a suburb  of 
London.  But  let  us  pray  that  an  international  copyright 
law  may  give  American  writers  a chance  to  drive  much 
of  this  nasty  literature  out  of  the  market.  The  sort  of 
heroine  Miss  Braddon  introduces  to  young  ladies  is  thus 
described : “ She  could  still  hold  up  her  head  and  say  to 


126 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


herself,  c I may  be  passionately  in  love  with  St.  Anstell, 
as  he  is  with  me ; but  I am  true  to  my  husband  all  the 
same.’  ” 

Scheherezade  is  by  the  author  of  the  popular  House  in  the 
Marsh , which  was  a bold  attempt  to  imitate  Charlotte 
Bronte’s  manner  and  matter — not  excluding  the  hatred 
of  priests  that  showed  particularly  in  Villette.  Nouna, 
the  heroine  of  Scheherezade , is  a kittenish  and  disagreeable 
creature,  without  either  sense,  sentiment,  or  any  other 
attribute  that  a woman  ought  to  possess.  She  developes, 
by  means  of  lurid  and  terrible  incidents,  into  something 
resembling  a woman.  Nouna’s  father  is  a major  in  the 
English  army,  who  has  married  a second  wife  while  his 
first  is  living.  Her  mother  is  a female  of  infamous  repu- 
tation; she  is  without  religion,  although  the  Catholic 
Church  attracts  her  because  she  thinks  she  would  find  re- 
lief in  confession.  Her  husband,  a truly  idiotic  young 
officer,  says : 

“ ‘You  would  never  do  for  a Catholic,  Nouna.  They  have  to 
confess  all  their  sins,  even  very  little  ones  that  you  think  nothing  of.’ 
4 Well,  that’s  what  you  are  always  wanting  me  to  do.’  * See,  then. 
You  shall  go  to  Mass  every  Sunday,  and  then  confess  your  sins  to 
me,  and  you  will  be  the  very  best  of  Catholics.’ 

‘4  4 But,  George,  George,’  she  began,  almost  in  a whisper,  hold- 
ing his  arm  tighter,  and  looking  away  over  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
which  they  were  now  crossing,  to  the  trees  of  the  Tuileries,  4 there 
are  some  things — not  sins — that  one  doesn’t  like  to  tell — I don’t  know 
why — but  they  make  one  think  of  so  many  thirigs — that  all  seem  new 
— and  make  one  feel  like  a different  person.  I suppose  a man  never 
feels  like  that,  but  I am  a woman — quite  a woman — now,  George.’  ” 

Nouna  probably  regarded  the  confessional  as  a place 
where  she  could  gossip  with  impunity;  if  George  had  not 
been  so  utterly  foolish  he  might  have  let  his  wife  learn 
something  further  about  the  church.  There  is  just  enough 
nature  in  this  book  to  make  its  impossibilities  interesting. 


MODERN  NO  VELS  AND  NO  VELISTS.  1 2 7 

It  is  a wild  and  fantastic  narrative,  and  the  people  in  it  are 
generally  such  as  any  decent  man  or  woman  would  avoid 
in  real  life.  It  is  almost  as  long  as  the  new  German 
novel,  Was  will  das  Werden  ? by  Spielhagen,  which,  we 
warn  our  readers  in  advance  of  its  translation  and  publi- 
cation, is  as  dull  as  it  is  long.  It  is  a pretended  effort  to 
give  a remedy  for  the  social  ills  that  are  crying  aloud  for 
redress.  It  has  as  little  bearing  on  the  society  of  to-day 
as  Wilhelm  Meister  had.  After  many  pages  Spielhagen 
coolly  ends  by  saying  that  if  we  see  what  we  will  see, 
‘‘something  grand”  will  happen!  The  mountain  has 
labored  and  the  mouse  is  very,  very  small. 

Howard:  “Tony  the  Maid.” 

Tony  the  Maid,  by  Blanche  Willis  Howard,  author  of 
One  Summer , Guenn,  etc.  (New  York:  Harper  & Bros.), 
is  a pleasant  contrast  to  the  English  reprints.  There  is 
a smile  in  every  page  of  it.  Tony  is  a young  German 
girl  who  devotes  herself  to  the  service  of  Miss  Aurelia 
Vanderpool.  Miss  Aurelia  is  a rather  weak-minded  Ameri- 
can lady  of  a certain  age.  She  has  been  travelling  under 
the  protection  of  her  uncle  John.  This  personage  deserts 
her  and  goes  his  own  way  as  soon  as  he  finds  the  trust- 
worthy Tony,  whose  real  name  is  Antonina  Tchorcher. 
Tony  devotes  herself,  in  the  most  artfully  artless  way,  to 
the  aggrandizement  and  comfort  of  Miss  Vanderpool.  She 
has  all  the  best  possibilities  of  a Becky  Sharp,  without 
any  of  her  evil  characteristics.  The  exclusive  English  at 
the  hotel  at  Constance  put  the  unconscious  Miss  Vander- 
pool under  the  impression  that  she  is  a great  personage. 
Tony’s  only  intention  is  to  make  her  mistress  comfortable. 
She  captures  the  butler  of  the  High-Dudgeons,  the  great 
potentate,  by  her  adroit  insinuations  that  Miss  Vander- 
pool is  of  the  highest  social  rank : 


128 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


“Momentary  opposition  only  made  Tony’s  claims  surer  and 
safer.  A transient  and  light-minded  Frenchman,  answering  to  the 
name  of  the  Baron  ” — this  was  at  the  servants’  table — “ and  wearing 
an  insolent  little  imperial,  suddenly  appeared  in  that  sedate  and  select 
circle  down-stairs  where  Britannic  ideas  prevailed.  Turning  towards 
Tony,  before  the  whole  assemblage,  he  remarked  superciliously  : 
4 Vanderpool  ? The  name  is  not  in  the  Almanack  de  Gotha.  We 
never  travel  without  one,  and  I looked.’  Not  one  of  the  honored 
names  represented  at  that  convivial  board  happened  to  adorn  the 
Gotha  almanac.  The  more  reason  why  every  eye  should  now  glare 
accusingly  at  Tony.  4 A gentleman  of  your  education,  Baron,’  she 
replied,  with  the  composure  of  an  easy  conscience,  4 is  undoubtedly 
aware  that  we  have  a different  almanac  in  America.  We,  too,  always 
travel  with  ours,  and  our  name  is  in  it.’  This  was  strictly  true.  Tony 
had  seen  Miss  Aurelia  repeatedly  take  from  her  portfolio  a yellow 
pamphlet,  upon  whose  fly-leaf  Aurelia  Vanderpool  was  written  in 
lead-pencil,  and  upon  whose  back  ‘ Ayers  Cherry  Pectoral  ’ shone 
out  in  commanding”  characters.  ‘ Of  course,’  coughed  the  Baron, 
4 America  is  a great  country.’ 

Miss  Vanderpool,  thanks  to  Tony’s  harmless  man- 
oeuvres, takes  her  place  in  the  very  centre  of  the  British 
fort  of  High-Dudgeon’s  exclusiveness.  Her  reputation 
as  an  heiress  and  celebrity  becomes  great : 

“ An  enchantingly  pretty  American  girl  of  seventeen,  whose 
mamma  was  a candidate  for  the  outer  chair  of  the  next  to  the  High- 
Dudgeon  group,  had  the  temerity  to  peep  in  to  get  a glimpse  of  the 
phenomenon  ! She  was,  for  various  reasons,  not  in  favor  at  court, 
and  the  ambitious  mamma,  fearing  the  downfall  of  her  schemes, 
reproved  her  daughter  for  so  much  as  showing  her  saucy  head  within 
the  precincts.  4 Well,  mamma,  it  wasn’t  worth  while.  She’s  homely 
enough,  I must  say.’ 

“ Jessie,’  how  often  have  I told  you  to  say  ugly  ! Homely,  in 
that  sense,  isn’t  English.’ 

4‘  4 Neither  am  I,  thank  goodness,  and  neither’s  Bob.  But, 
mamma,  why  do  they  make  so  much  fuss  over  her  ? She’s  mild  as  a 
lamb,  but  not  a bit  smart,  I guess.’ 

4 4 4 Clever.’  corrected  the  much-tried  mother,  ‘and  “think,”  not 
4 guess.’  ” 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  129 

Miss  Vanderpool  finds  Sunday,  under  the  strict  rule  of 
the  English,  unendurable.  “And  what  have  you  done  to- 
day, Tony?  Have  you  enjoyed  yourself?”  Miss  Van- 
derpool had  been  compelled  to  attend  three  English  ser- 
vices, so  she  had  reason  for  her  wistfulness.  “And  how 
much!”  exclaimed  the  girl.  “First,  I went  to  Mass,  and 
then  I arranged  everything  for  the  gracious  fraulein,  know- 
ing my  duty,  and  this  afternoon,  with  gracious  permission 
to  go  out,  I enjoyed  myself  vastly.  The  garden  was  breezy 
and  cool,  the  people  so  kind,  the  music  beautiful.  Then 
the  sail  over  and  back!”  Miss  Vanderpool  hesitatingly 
asks  Tony  if  she  knows  a place  where  there  are  no  Eng- 
lish. Tony  answers  that  she  knows  where  there  are  some 
nice  Germans  and  French  people,  “ so  amiable,  and  of 
excellent  family.”  Miss  Vanderpool  intimates  that  she 
has  had  enough  of  “family.”  Tony  says  that  now  and 
then  an  English-speaking  person  “ might  happen  along.” 
But  Miss  Vanderpool  answers  that  she  could  endure  that 
if  she  did  not  stay  too  long.  Miss  Howard’s  Tony  the 
Maid  is  a good-natured  satire  on  the  manners  of  a certain 
class  of  English  when  on  the  Continent,  and  the  motto, 
“ Ad  bonam  fidem  recta  oinnis  via refers  to  Tony,  whose 
knowledge  of  her  duty  is  rewarded  by  a happy  emigration 
to  America. 

Tolstoi:  “The  Cossacks.” 

The  Cossacks:  a Tale  of  the  Caucasus  in  1852,  by  Count 
Leo  Tolstoi,  translated  by  Eugene  Schuyler  (New  York: 
William  S.  Gottsberger),  is  the  latest  issued  of  this  Rus- 
sian novelist  and  philosopher’s  works.  It  was  written  in 
1861.  It  is  a sort  of  a pastoral  of  Cossack  life.  It  bears 
the  marks  of  truth,  it  is  realistic — everything  is  put  down 
— and  the  only  idealism  in  the  book  is  Olenin’s  attempt 
at  self-sacrifice.  Olenin  is  a young  Russian  officer,  who, 
5 


130  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

longing  for  something  beyond  the  gay  and  sophisticated 
life  of  a great  city,  exiles  himself  in  a remote  Cossack  vil- 
lage. The  people  are  rude,  semi-barbarous;  the  stealing 
of  horses  is  a mere  imperfection;  drunkennness  is  a vir- 
tue and  chastity  a matter  of  indifference.  Still,  they  are 
devout  in  the  Russian  fashion.  Olenin’s  friends  of  his 
own  class  look  on  female  virtue  as  a commodity;  he  rises 
above  this,  and  offers  to  marry  a Cossack  girl  from  pure 
love,  although  she  is  already  engaged  to  Lukaska,  one  of 
the  boldest  of  land  buccaneers.  But,  though  Marianka 
encourages  his  advances,  she  refuses  to  marry  him  when 
she  hears  that  her  lover  has  been  injured  while  on  one  of 
his  expeditions.  He  has  suffered  much  during  his  strug- 
gles against  his  own  inclinations  and  the  laxity  of  his 
friends,  and  now  he  suffers  more.  But  he  says  good-bye 
to  Uncle  Eroshka  and  the  rest  who  have  been  part  of  his 
life.  Going,  “ Olenin  looked  round  once.  Uncle  Eroshka 
was  talking  with  Marianka,  evidently  about  his  own  affairs ; 
and  neither  the  old  man  nor  the  girl  paid  the  slightest  at- 
tention to  him.”  The  Cossacks  ends  in  this  way — hope- 
lessly, disappointedly.  While  the  descriptions  of  a wild, 
strange  life  are  interesting — as  interesting  and  as  vigorous 
as  in  Gogol’s  Taras  Bulba — yet  it  is  hard  to  understand 
why  Tolstoi’s  Cossacks  should  be  vaunted  as  a masterpiece. 
In  fact,  it  is  hard  to  understand  why  Count  Tolstoi’s  pes- 
simism, affectation  of  realism,  and  general  mistiness  should 
be  hailed  with  such  effusion  by  the  critics. 

The  novel-reading  public  ought  by  this  time  to  be 
weary  of  Russians — the  Russians  depicted  in  the  fash- 
ionable translations.  Turgueneff,  a master  of  style,  was 
weakened  in  the  estimation  of  some  of  the  “ cultured  ” 
by  the  fact  that  he  wrote  so  much  in  French.  Neverthe- 
less he  was  the  best  of  them.  Then  Tolstoi  was  intro- 
duced to  us  in  an  English  dress,  and  people  who  found 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


Sir  Walter  Scott  tiresome  pretended  to  be  enthusiastic 
over  his  interminable  War  and  Peace.  Now  the  leading 
man  is  Fedor  Dostoieffsky,  and  not  to  know  him  well  and 
his  fellow- Russian,  Lermontoff,  a little  is  as  fatal  to  the 
pretensions  of  the  literary  fat  as  not  to  know  who  Scho- 
penhauer was  a few  months  ago,  or  not  to  have  an  opin- 
ion on  the  Nirvana  is  now. 

Dostoieffsky  is  a realist — that  is,  he  looks  carefully  for 
the  gloomy,  criminal,  mean  impulses  and  acts  in  life. 
He  drags  up  the  dregs  of  human  nature  and  muddies  his 
stream  with  them.  The  stream  may  be  placid,  limpid,  or 
sparkling,  and  graceful  shadows  of  green  trees  may  pass 
over  it ; but  Dostoieffsky  never  sees  these  things.  Above 
all,  he  never  sees  anything  that  brings  humanity  nearer  to 
God.  God,  if  he  exists,  according  to  Dostoieffsky  is  a 
being  who  laughs  at  the  inexpressible  vileness  of  the  man 
he  has  created  vile : therefore  he  is  a “ realist ; ” he  draws 
things  as  they  are ; he  is  Great,  and  Mr.  Howells  is  his 
prophet!  Dostoieffsky’s  Crime  and  Punishment  and 
Injury  and  Insult  are  the  two  novels  most  talked  about 
just  now.  In  Crime  a?id  Punishment  the  interest  eddies 
around  a mad  and  lurid  creature,  Rodia  Raskolnikoff, 
and  in  Insult  and  Injury  Natash,  a woman  of  brutal  pas- 
sion, is  the  central  figure.  Both  novels  are  powerful  and 
unhealthily  interesting.  If  Russian  life  is  what  Turguen- 
eff,  Tolstoi,  and  Dostoieffsky  represent  it  to  be,  Russia 
must  be  a sad  place,  whose  people  are  divided  between 
idiotic  glee  and  unrestrainable  delirium. 

Laffan:  “ Ismay's  Children.” 

Miss  May  Laffan,  the  author  of  Hogan , M.  P. , The 
Hon.  Miss  Ferard , etc.,  is  not  a persona  grata  with  Irish 
Nationalists.  But  she  is  a very  clever  writer — which  is 
perhaps  one  of  the  reasons,  for  we  do  not  like  her  way  of 


132  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

putting  things.  One  is  more  likely  to  be  offended  by 
witty  sneers  than  by  stupid  jeers.  Isma/s  Children  (New 
York:  Macmillan  & Co.)  is  her  best  book.  It  has  all  the 
cleverness  of  Hogan , without  the  cynicism  and  hard- 

ness— so  strange  in  an  Irishwoman — which  spoiled  that 
brilliant  novel. 

Ismay’s  children  are  Marion,  Gertrude,  and  Godfrey 
Mauleverer.  Their  father  was  a wild  Irish  officer,  who 
died  leaving  his  affairs  in  such  a tangle  that  the  testimony 
as  to  his  marriage  with  Ismay  D’Arcy  was  lost.  He  told 
the  name  of  the  place  in  Scotland  where  the  marriage  took 
place  to  Ismay’s  aunt,  Juliet  D’Arcy,  but  the  old  lady, 
under  the  stress  of  terrible  emotion,  forgot  it,  and,  when 
the  children  were  left  orphans,  they  were  unable  to  make 
valid  their  claims  to  the  estate  they  should  have  inherited. 
Brought  up  in  France,  they  are  Catholics.  Old  Miss 
D’Arcy  and  Father  Paul  Conroy  are  delightful  pictures  of 
an  Irish  gentleman  and  gentlewoman  of  the  old  school, 
which  is  unhappily  rapidly  becoming  a thing  of  the  past. 
Godfrey  Mauleverer  is  not  well  defined ; his  involvement 
in  a Fenian  conspiracy  and  his  death  are  coups  de  the'atre , 
for  which  Miss  Laffan  shows  a weakness  when  her  plot 
gives  her  trouble.  Tighe  O’Malley — who  has  possession 
of  the  estate  which  should  belong  to  Godfrey — Lady 
Blanche,  and  the  rest  of  the  gentry  are  very  stupid  and 
uninteresting  people,  of  whom  no  lesser  novelist  than 
Trollope  could  have  made  anything.  But  Miss  D’Arcy, 
the  Mauleverer  girls,  Father  Conroy,  the  beggars,  the 
Ahearnes,  and  the  Quins  are  characters  full  of  life  and 
worthy  of  Gerald  Griffin.  The  pretences  of  Peggy,  pro- 
fessional beggar  and  professional  letter-writer  to  Barretts- 
town,  who,  on  the  American  mail  day,  begins  to  read  a 
letter  from  Mrs.  Kelly’s  daughter,  beginning  “ My  Dear 
Mother,  this  is  all  to  tell  you — ” and,  puzzled,  cries  out, 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


1 33 


“ She’s  ded!”  are  characteristically  humorous.  The  sys- 
tem of  marriage-making  among  Irish  farmers  is  explained 
without  exaggeration.  Mary  Ahearne  wants  to  enter  a 
convent,  but  her  parents  insist  on  her  marriage.  She  es- 
capes the  latter  alternative  with  the  help  of  Father  Con- 
roy. Miss  Laffan,  sketching  the  interior  of  Mary  Ahearne’s 
room,  states  a sad  truth  which  is  the  cause  of  much  of  the 
disregard  of  the  outward  beauty  of  things  which  even  the 
most  sympathetic  tourists  have  noticed  in  Ireland: 

“On  the  chimney-piece  was  a statue  of  the  Madonna,  with 
candlesticks  and  vases  at  either  side.  Beyond  this  there  was  not  an 
attempt  even  of  the  humblest  kind  at  decoration,  not  a flower,  though 
the  garden  held  a spring  crop  of  blossoms.  And  it  was  not  that 
Mary  Ahearne  did  not  love  flowers  ; it  was  her  secret  wish  on  enter- 
ing the  convent  to  be  given  the  charge  of  the  green  house,  where  the 
nuns  grew  the  flowers  for  the  altar.  But  she  did  not  attempt  to 
grow  flowers  or  decorate  the  farm-house.  This  was  because  she 
shared  the  same  feeling  of  unrest  and  insecurity  that  hindered  her 
father  from  imitating  the  Scotch  farmer’s  pretty  garden  and  tidy  ap- 
proach. Old  Ahearne  never  drove  past  McNeil's  farm  without  stop- 
ping to  admire  the  roses  and  the  creepers  trained  on  the  house-front, 
and  the  pretty,  bright  flower-beds  in  the  grass  before  it,  yet  he  never 
dared  to  imitate  McNeil’s  example.  Some  07ie  'would  be  attracted  by 
it , and  bid  over  his  head  for  the  lease  of  the  farmy  as  had  been  the 
case  with  the  Scotchman." 

Miss  Laffan  sees  and  acknowledges  the  fact  that  in  Ire  - 
land,  among  the  middle-classes,  the  convents  have  kept 
“ alive  the  graces  and  decencies  of  life  ” which  oppression 
made  penal.  Another  instance  of  the  love  of  the  Irish 
poor  for  the  beautiful  things  they  seldom  see  is  shown 
when  Molly  comes  to  see  Marion  Mauleverer: 

“ She  never  saw  a flower  save  at  Mass.  Her  own  house,  a cabin 
on  the  bog  edge,  had  a manure-heap  before  its  one  window,  and  the 
approach  to  the  door  lay  through  a pool  of  liquid  filth.  The  same 
kind  of  feeling  came  over  her  again,  only  not  so  intense,  that  she  felt 
at  High  Mass  on  Easter  Sunday  or  Corpus  Christi — a sense  of  rest, 


134  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

\ 

of  peace,  almost  amounting  to  joy.  The  purple  wrappings  that  sym- 
bolized suffering  and  travail  were  gone,  and  in  their  place  were  flowers, 
lights,  incense,  music.  A foreshadowing  of  heaven,  if  only  a 
transient  one,  was  vouchsafed  to  her  grateful  eyes.” 

But  neither  Molly  nor  the  other  poor  of  Barrettstown 
could  leave  their  hunger  outside  the  church-door.  It  was 
always  with  them,  though  in  church  they  forgot  it. 

One  of  the  charms  of  Ismafs  Children  is  the  tender 
and  careful  treatment  of  the  atmosphere  around  the 
young  Mauleverer  girls : Miss  Laffan  never  lets  us  forget 
that  their  poverty  only  serves  to  make  their  unconscious 
refinement  more  apparent. 

Ebers:  “ The  Bride  of  the  Nile.” 

Paula,  the  heroine  of  The  Bride  of  the  Nile , is  one  of  the 
most  forceful  characters  depicted  in  recent  fiction.  She 
has  all  the  spirit  of  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  Catherine  Seton 
without  her  pertness — a stanch  and  honest  heroine,  who 
never  disappoints  the  reader  by  falling  below  her  level. 
She  cannot  brook  injustice;  she  cannot  remain  silent 
when  wrong  is  made  to  appear  right.  And,  as  deeply  as 
she  loves  Orion,  her  love  does  not  blind  her  to  those 
qualities  in  him  which  she  hates  with  the  same  hatred  as 
she  hates  the  devil. 

We  praise  George  Ebers’  romances  with  a reservation ; 
but  The  Bride  of  the  Nile  is  the  best,  the  purest,  and  the 
most  powerful  of  them.  According  to  expectation,  he 
admires  the  Moslems ; his  sympathy  seems  to  tend  more 
towards  the  crescent  than  the  cross,  and  man  himself  is 
represented  as  the  one  source  from  which  goodness  comes, 
for  Ebers  is  a humanitarian.  Nevertheless  these  blem- 
ishes are  not  prominent ; and  Paula  never  could  have 
been  as  she  was,  pure  and  noble,  had  the  spirit  of  Chris- 
tianity not  directed  her. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


J3S 


Blackmore:  “Springhaven.” 

The  author  of  Lorna  Doone  gives  the  public  Springhaven 
(Harper  & Bros.)  The  pernicious  English  practice  of 
forcing  novels  into  three  volumes  is  doubtless  responsible 
for  the  length  of  Springhaven , which  is  very  long.  Mr. 
Blackmore  introduces  us  to  a fine  old  Admiral,  his  two 
daughters,  Faith  and  Dolly,  several  male  characters,  in- 
cluding Lord  Nelson,  Napoleon,  and  a French  spy  named 
Carne.  The  seafaring  people  in  the  book  are  all  rough, 
true,  and  natural.  The  scene  is  laid  in  the  early  part  of 
this  century,  and  the  pages  of  description  have  a faint 
scent  of  an  old-fashioned  pot-pourri ; but,  in  spite  of 
Faith’s  goodness,  of  which  the  author  talks  continually, 
Dolly’s  coquetry,  Carne’s  heartless  intriguing,  the  talk  of 
the  seafaring-men,  and  even  Erie  Twemlow’s  African  ad- 
ventures— during  which  a beard  is  made  to  grow  on  his 
face  by  means  of  a gold-colored  powder,  the  roots  of  which 
are  so  thick  as  to  deflect  the  course  of  a bullet — Spring- 
haven is  hard  to  read.  It  ends  happily  for  everybody  ex- 
cept the  Admiral  and  the  villain.  Cheeseman,  the  smug- 
gling and  treacherous  grocer,  is  very  well  done.  Under 
fear  of  impending  misfortune  he  tries  to  hang  himself. 

“ ‘ Why  don’t  you  cut  him  down,  you  old  fools,’  cried  the  Ad- 
miral to  three  gaffers,  who  stood  moralizing,  while  Mrs.  Cheeseman 
sat  upon  a barrel,  sobbing  heavily,  with  both  hands  spread  to  conceal 
the  sad  sight. 

“ ‘ We  was  afraid  of  hurting  of  him,’  said  the  quickest-witted  of 
the  gaffers;  ‘Us  wanted  to  know  why ’a  doed  it,’ said  the  deepest; 
and,  4 The  will  of  the  Lord  must  be  done,’  said  the  wisest. 

“ After  fumbling  in  vain  for  his  knife,  and  looking  round,  the 
Admiral  ran  back  into  the  shop,  and  caught  up  the  sharp  steel  blade 
with  which  the  victim  of  a troubled  mind  had  often  unsold  a sold 
ounce  in  the  days  of  happy  commerce.  In  a moment  the  Admiral  had 
the  poor  church-warden  in  his  sturdy  arms,  and  with  a sailor’s  skill 
had  unknotted  the  choking  noose,  and  was  shouting  for  brandy,  as  he 
kept  the  blue  head  from  falling  back. 


136 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


When  a little  of  the  finest  eau  de  vie  that  ever  was  smuggled 
had  been  administered,  the  patient  rallied,  and,  becoming  compara- 
tively cheerful,  was  enabled  to  explain  that  ‘ it  was  all  a mistake  alto- 
gether.’ This  removed  all  misunderstanding  ; but  Rector  Twemlow, 
arriving  too  late  for  anything  but  exhortation,  asked  a little  too  sternly 
— as  everybody  felt — under  what  influence  of  the  Evil  One  Cheese- 
man  had  committed  that  mistake.  The  reply  was  worthy  of  an  en- 
terprising tradesman,  and  brought  him  such  orders  from  a score  of 
miles  around  that  the  resources  of  the  establishment  could  only  book 
them. 

“ ‘ Sir,’  he  said,  looking  at  the  parson  sadly,  with  his  right  hand 
laid  upon  his  heart,  which  was  feeble,  and  his  left  hand  intimating 
that  his  neck  was  sore,  ‘ if  anything  has  happened  that  had  better  not 
have  been,  it  must  have  been  by  reason  of  the  weight  I give,  and  the 
value  such  a deal  above  the  prices.’  ” 

Mr.  Blackmore’s  style  of  telling  his  story  is  rich  and 
mellow.  But  when  he  told  Lorna  Doone  he  left  himself 
no  other  story  to  tell. 

James:  “ Princess  Casamassima.” 

Mr.  James’  Princess  Casaniassima  is  the  best  thing  he 
has  done,  if  we  leave  out  his  short  stories.  It  does  not 
end  at  all,  though  the  hero  commits  suicide.  The  prin- 
cess, a beautiful  young  person,  is  the  wife  of  an  Italian. 
She  is  exceedingly  restless ; she  deserts  her  husband,  an 
honorable,  simple-minded  nobleman,  and  comes  to  Lon- 
don to  get  as  close  as  possible  to  the  “lower  classes.” 
She  has  no  principle,  no  constancy,  no  morality;  but  she 
is  clever  and  interesting.  Hyacinth  Robinson,  whose  un- 
known father  was  believed  to  be  a lord,  and  whose 
mother  was  a murderess,  is  investigated  as  a member  of 
the  “ lower  classes.”  He  is  a type,  perhaps  somewhat  too 
refined,  of  the  state  of  mind  to  which  unsuitable  educa- 
tion and  impossible  aspirations,  joined  with  a taste  for  lux- 
ury, bring  a great  class  of  young  men.  He  is  singular 
only  in  having  skilled  hands  and  in  using  them  as  a work- 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


1 37 


ingman  in  love  with  his  work.  He  is  led  by  the  princess 
into  loving  her.  He  and  she  are  both  entangled  in  secret 
societies — she  to  amuse  herself,  he  because  he  has  been 
drawn  into  them.  He  has  sworn  to  commit  an  assassina- 
tion, and,  when  the  time  comes,  he,  left  without  hope  or 
object  in  the  world,  assassinates  himself. 

The  studies  of  the  Socialists,  Paul  Muniment — who 
sees  his  way  to  power  through  destruction  or  a threat  of 
destruction — the  Germans,  and  Eustache  Poupin,  the 
French  Communist,  are  exquisitely  careful  and  true. 
When  Hyacinth  is  suspected  of  cooling  in  “ the  cause,” 
Poupin,  a workman  of  fine  words,  tells  him  that  it  is  be- 
tween him  and  his  conscience.  The  Communist  says: 

“ ‘ The  conscience  of  the  individual  is  absolute,  except,  of  course, 
in  those  classes  in  which,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  infamies  on 
which  they  are  founded,  no  conscience  can  exist.  Speak  to  me,  how- 
ever, of  my  Paris  ; she  is  always  divine,’  Poupin  went  on.  But  he 
showed  signs  of  irritation  when  Hyacinth  began  to  praise  to  him  the 
magnificent  creations  of  the  arch-fiend  of  December.  In  the  pres- 
ence of  this  picture  he  was  in  a terrible  dilemma  ; he  was  gratified  as 
a Parisian  and  a patriot,  but  he  was  disconcerted  as  a lover  of  liberty  ; 
it  cost  him  a pang  to  admit  that  anything  in  the  sacred  city  was 
defective,  yet  he  saw  still  less  his  way  to  concede  that  it  could  owe 
any  charm  to  the  perjured  monster  of  the  Second  Empire,  or  even  to 
the  hypocritical,  mendacious  republicanism  of  the  regime  before  which 
the  sacred  Commune  had  gone  down  in  blood  and  fire.  ‘ Ah  ! yes, 
it’s  very  fine,  no  doubt,’  he  remarked  at  last;  ‘but  it  will  be  still 
finer  when  it’s  ours  ! ’ — a speech  which  caused  Hyacinth  to  turn  back 
to  his  work  with  a slight  feeling  of  sickness.  Everywhere,  every- 
where he  saw  the  ulcer  of  envy — the  passion  of  party  which  hung  to- 
gether for  the  purpose  of  despoiling  another  to  its  advantage.  In 
old  Eustache,  one  o£the  ‘ pure,’  this  was  particularly  sad.” 

Mr.  James’  affectations,  so  obnoxious  in  his  interna- 
tional books  and  so  tiresome  in  The  Bostonicuis , are  not 
apparent  in  the  Princess  Casimassima.  The  novel  has 
no  story;  but  the  play  of  character  on  character  is  direct, 


1 3 8 MODERN  NO  EEL  AND  NO  EEL/STS. 

and  there  is  little  tiresome  analysis.  The  prince  and 
Madame  Grandoni,  the  honest  German  lady  with  the 
Italian  name,  are  genially  painted,  and  are  as  true  to  their 
national  natures  as  Thackeray’s  De  Florae.  It  is  regret- 
table that  Mr.  James  should  prefer  realism  to  idealization 
and  offer  us  only  a finely-limned  panorama  with  all  the 
apparent  indifference  of  a showman  who  disdains  even  to 
introduce  into  his  exposition  one  ideal  sentence  or  one 
line  of  poetry.  The  tone  of  the  book  is  that  of  a mind 
that  sees  the  present  without  caring  for  the  past  or  the 
future — a tone  of  doubt  so  settled  that  it  does  not  care 
to  ask  even  Pilate’s  question. 

Yonge:  “A  Modern  Telemachus.” 

A Modern  Telemachus  (New  York:  Macmillan  & Co.) 
is  a new  story  by  Miss  Charlotte  M.  Yonge,  who,  the 
older  she  grows,  seems  to  be  losing  that  fierce  dislike  to 
the  Catholic  Church  that  marked  her  earlier  historical 
romances.  A recent  one,  The  Armorer's  Apprentices , was 
exceedingly  sweet  and  elevating,  and  did  justice  to  the 
character  of  Sir  Thomas  More. 

Shorthouse:  “ Sir  Perceval/' 

Sir  Perceval  (New  York:  Macmillan  & Co.)  is  a Quiet- 
ist  rhapsody  by  Mr.  Shorthouse,  the  author  of  John  Ingle- 
sant.  There  is  a young  lady  in  it,  remotely  connected 
with  Port  Royal  in  some  manner,  as  everybody  in  the 
book  seems  to  be.  She  delivers  herself  in  this  modest 
way: 

“ * I suppose,’  she  said,  ‘that  mankind  will  always  find  some  in- 
centive to  moral  action  in  symbols.  So  long  as  the  Christian  faith  is 
admitted  to  consist  of  mere  symbols,  I do  not  know — I really  do  not 
know — that  I should  object  to  it  much.  Some  of  its  shadow  music 
is  beautiful — quite  beautiful.  But  when  these  shadows  are  imposed 
on  us  as  realities,  then  it  becomes  the  highest  duty  of  us  all  to  show 


MODERN  NO  FEES  AND  NOVELISTS.  , 139 

that  these  dogmatic  idols  have  no  greater  value  than  the  productions 
of  men’s  hands — the  stocks  and  stones  which  they  have  replaced.’  ” 

Into  Sir  Perceval,  too,  the  questions  of  Positivism  and 
Socialism  enter,  but  no  answer  is  made  to  them.  The 
Positivist  girl  with  Socialist  tendencies  dies. 

“ ‘She  is  gone,’  I said,  ‘to  that  God  whom  she  loved  when  a 
child.  She  is  gone  to  that  God^whom  she  died  serving,  though  she 
fancied  that  she  did  not  know  him.’” 

One  can  scarcely  blame  her  for  refusing  to  accept  the 
shadow  of  a religion  which  Mr.  Shorthouse’s  personages 
offer  her — a religion  beginning  and  ending  with  the  right 
of  each  person  to  read  the  Bible  from  his  point  of  view. 
However,  Mr.  Shorthouse’s  Quietistic  religion,  though  a 
vague  and  uncertain  heresy,  is  better  than  no  religion  at 
all.  Most  of  the  novels  that  fall  into  our  hands  remind 
us  of  a speech  in  one  of  M.  Augier’s  plays.  A marquise 
says : “ I was  surprised  even  to-day  by  a shameful  temp- 
tation. Where  shall  I find  help?  Who  will  save  me?” 
To  which  an  old  marquis  replies:  “ In  my  time  we  had 
God." 

In  our  time  and  in  the  literature  of  fiction  God  has  gone 
out  of  fashion. 

Jewett:  “ Deephaven.” 

Miss  Sarah  O.  Jewett’s  Deephaven  (Houghton,  Mifflin 
& Co.)  is  a series  of  quiet  studies  of  life  in  a New  Eng- 
land seaboard  town.  It  has  many  charming  bits  of  humor 
and  tenderness ; and  the  description  of  the  old  house  at 
Deephaven  is  worthy  of  Hawthorne,  with  a touch  of  wom  - 
anly sentiment.  Among  the  contents  of  faded  Miss 
Katharine’s  escritoire — 

“ There  was  a box  which  Kate  was  glad  to  find,  for  she  had  heard 
her  mother  wonder  if  some  such  things  were  not  in  existence.  It  held 
a crucifix  and  a mass-book  and  some  rosaries,  and  Kate  told  me  that 


140  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

Miss  Katharine’s  youngest  and  favorite  brother  had  become  a Roman 
Catholic  while  studying  in  Europe.  It  was  a dreadful  blow  to  the 
family  ; for  in  those  days  there  could  have  been  few  deeper  disgraces 
to  the  Brandon  family  than  to  have  one  of  its  sons  go  over  to  popery. 
Only  Miss  Katharine  treated  him  with  kindness,  and  after  a time  he 
disappeared  without  telling  even  her  where  he  was  going,  and  was 
only  heard  from  indirectly  once  or  twice  afterward.  It  was  a great 
grief  to  her.  ‘ And  mamma  knows,’  said  Kate,  1 that  she  always  had 
a lingering  hope  of  his  return,  for  one  of  the  last  times  she  saw  Aunt 
Katharine  before  she  was  ill  she  spoke  of  soon  going  to  be  with  all 
the  rest,  and  said,  4 Though  your  Uncle  Harry,  dear’ — and  stopped 
and  smiled  sadly  ; ‘ you’ll  think  me  a very  foolish  old  woman,  but  I 
never  quite  gave  up  thinking  he  might  come  home.’  ” 

Anon. : “A  Demi-god.”  ' 

A Demi-god  (Harper  & Bros.),  which  bears  the  motto 
Erzy  ^ErjTpadlov,  is  an  anonymous  novel  written  on  the  sup- 
position that  a perfect  man  may  be  gradually  “ evolved  ” 
by  several  generations  of  careful  selection  of.  ancestors 
and  fortunate  circumstances.  Probably  this  experiment 
will  never  be  tested  in  real  life  until  each  individual  suc- 
ceeds in  choosing  his  own  ancestors.  An  English  physi- 
cian living  in  Amsterdam  was  several  centuries  ago  smit- 
ten with  the  Dutch  mania  for  the  “ evolution  ” of  perfect 
tulips — a mania  similar,  and  no  doubt  as  expensive,  as 
the  fashionable  mania  for  orchids.  Hector  Vyr  was  the 
result,  in  this  century,  of  Dr.  Vere’s  application  of  the 
theory  of  improving  the  race  by  artificial  selection,  sug- 
gested by  the  Dutch  burghers’  success  with  their  tulips. 
An  American  group,  consisting  of  the  irascible  Major 
Wellington,  whose  mildest  oath  was  “ Boswell’s  Life  of 
Johnson!”  his  daughter  Madeline,  her  Aunt  Eliza  and 
her  lover,  a Mr.  Griffin,  invade  Greece.  They  are  taken 
by  brigands,  who  sneer  at  England  and  America,  and  defy 
their  own  timorous  government.  The  captives,  unable  to 
raise  the  fifty  thousand  dollars  demanded,  are  almost  in 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  141 

despa*.,  when  Hector  Vyr,  the  demi-god,  arrives,  puts 
the  brigands  to  flight,  and  rescues  the  Americans. 

The  demi-god  speaks  English ; he  admires  Miss  Made- 
line and  asks  to  look  at  her  teeth — it  is  a tradition  in  his 
family  to  examine  the  teeth  of  ladies  they  admire.  The 
teeth  of  the  charming  young  Boston  lady  were  probably 
false,  as  they  were  so  perfect ; but  the  author  does  not 
mention  it,  and  Hector  shows  himself  to  be  such  a sim- 
ple-minded demi-savage  that  Miss  Wellington  perhaps 
preferred  that  he  should  keep  his  illusion.  The  doctor’s 
policy  of  selecting  a handsome  Greek  barbarian  shows  its 
results  in  the  intense  stupidity  of  Hector,  who  is  any- 
thing but  a demi-god  in  mind.  Of  course  he  and  Made- 
line— the  first  Bostonian  to  enter  the  Vyr  family — are 
married,  and  modern  and  ancient  Athens  become  one,  as 
it  were.  The  author  stops  here,  unable,  no  doubt,  to 
bear  the  dazzling  future  which  must  come  to  Greece  from 
the  marriage  of  this  elaborately-cultivated  demi-god  and 
a Bostonian  of  the  proper  circle ! 

Haggard:  “ Allan  Quatermain.” 

Mr.  H.  Rider  Haggard  still  retains  his  place  in  the 
estimation  of  novel-readers.  His  latest  book,  Allan 
Quatermain , is  dividing  the  honors  with  Bret  Harte’s 
Cruise  of  the  Excelsior.  A curious  thing  about  Allan 
Quatermain  (Harper  & Bros.)  is  that  it  is  dedicated  to 
Mr.  Haggard’s  sons,  “ in  the  hope  ” that  it  may  help  them 
“ to  reach  to  what,  with  Sir  Henry  Curtis,  I hold  to  be  the 
highest  rank  whereto  we  can  attain — the  state  and  dig- 
nity of  English  gentlemen.”  When  we  consider  that  the 
book  is  the  record  of  the  impossible  adventures  of  a murder- 
ous savage,  and  that  the  end  accomplished  by  Sir  Henry 
Curtis  is  marriage  with  a barbaric  princess  of  doubtful  re- 
ligion and  morality,  we  wonder  why  the  Arabian  Nights 


142  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

might  not  just  as  well  be  recommended  to  boys  as  a means 
of  advancement  towards  English  gentlemanhood. 

Mr.  Haggard’s  great  hold  on  the  public  may  be  attri- 
buted to  the  boldness  with  which  he  takes  old  travellers’ 
tales  and  changes  them  in  the  alembic  of  his  imagination 
to  things  strange  if  not  new,  and,  it  must  be  confessed, 
to  his  use  of  the  sensuous  element.  Mr.  Haggard’s  char- 
acters are  animal  and  unidealized — particularly  the  females 
who  appear  in  his  pages.  In  Allan  Quatermain  this  ele- 
ment, particularly  dangerous  to  young  people,  is  more  re- 
stricted than  in  She , but  nevertheless  is  entirely  too  pre- 
dominant. It  is  singular,  too,  that  Mr.  Haggard’s  knowl- 
edge of  literature  is  so  limited.  He  seemed  to  be  ignorant 
of  the  existence  of  Moore’s  Epicurean  when  critics  sug- 
gested that  She  resembled  it ; and  in  Allan  Quatermain 
he  anticipates  captious  remarks  by  saying  that  “ there  is 
an  underground  river  in  Peter  Wilkins , but  at  the  time 
of  writing  the  foregoing  pages  ” he  had  “ not  read  that 
quaint  but  entertaining  book.”  This  effectually  closes 
the  critical  mouths  open  to  devour  this  author  who  takes 
“ his  own  ” wherever  he  finds  it.  His  next  book  will  prob- 
ably be  an  account  of  life  in  a kingdom  of  African  apes, 
when  he  will  inform  us  in  advance  that  he  has  never  seen 
Les  Aventures  de  Poly  dor e Maras  quin,  by  Leon  Gozlan. 
Allan  Quatermain  justifies  its  motto,  “Ex  Africa  se77iper 
aliquid  noviS  It  is  full  of  wonders  and  of  horrors.  It 
has  no  literary  merit.  Neither  She  nor  Kmg  S0I0771071  s 
Mmes  nor  Alla7i  Quater77iam  will  be  remembered  two 
years  from  this  year  of  grace  in  which  many  thousand 
copies  of  them  have  been  sold.  Mr.  Haggard’s  books  are 
as  full  of  impossible  adventures  as  the  novels  of  Alexan- 
dre Dumas,  and  in  their  sensuous  flavor  are — with  the 
exception  of  Kmg  Solomo7ls  Mmes — even  more  perni- 


cious. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


143 


Johnson:  “ The  House  of  the  Musician.” 

Austin:  “Friend  Sorrow.” 

Two  novels,  The  House  of  the  Musician , by  Virginia  W. 
Johnson  (Boston:  Ticknor  & Co.),  and  Friend  Sorrow, 
by  Mrs.  Austin  (New  York:  Catholic  Publication  Soci- 
ety Co.),  have  the  same  motive.  In  both,  the  usual  de- 
testable male  creature  who  does  not  know  his  own  mind 
falls  in  love  with  one  sister,  and  then  retumbles  into  love 
with  the  other.  It  is  time  that  the  writers  of  fiction  dis- 
covered a new  species  of  hero.  One  grows  tired  of  the 
bold,  bad,  Rochester-like  person,  and  also  of  the  limp 
hero  who  would,  in  affairs  of  the  heart,  “ be  happy  with 
either,  were  t’other  dear  charmer  away.” 

Durand:  “Count  Xavier.” 

Madame  Durand  (Henri  Greville’s)  Count  Xavier  (Bos- 
ton: Ticknor  & Co.)  has  the  false  tone  of  all  Henri  Gre- 
ville’s books.  Love  is,  of  course,  the  theme — that  kind  of 
love  which  absorbs  morality,  good  manners,  propriety,  and 
everything  reasonable.  The  characters  are  all  Russians, 
and  very  uninteresting  specimens  of  the  subjects  of  the 
czar,  without  whom  no  modern  novel  seems  to  be  com- 
plete. Count  Xavier  is  handsome,  and  he  is  loved  by  a 
peasant  girl.  The  peasant  girl  begins  to  pine  away.  He 
meets  the  illegitimate  child  of  his  uncle,  called  Thecla. 
Thecla  begins  to  pine  away  too,  when  her  mother,  with 
more  discretion  than  she  had  shown  in  her  own  youth, 
takes  her  from  the  castle  that  Count  Xavier  has  inherited 
from  his  uncle.  Count  Xavier  concludes  to  marry  The- 
cla, and,  after  some  complications,  they  are  married. 
The  discarded  peasant  girl  changes  her  mind,  does  not 
pine  away,  and  becomes  nurse  to  the  child  of  Count 
Xavier.  What  healthy-minded  person  wants  to  read  a 
novel  which  has  no  prominent  quality  except  sentimental 


144  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 

artificiality?  The  atmosphere  of  Henri  Greville’s  novels 
is  like  that  of  a close  room  impregnated  with  heavy  and 
cheap  perfumes. 

Ouida:  “A  House  Party/' 

Broughton:  “Dr.  Cupid." 

Two  new  novels  by  Ouida  and  Rhoda  Broughton  have 
been  sent  to  us,  announced  with  a great  flourish.  They 
are  both  evidences  that  unlimited  audacity  of  language, 
aided  by  unrestrained  imaginations,  will  not  always  pass 
for  brilliancy.  In  fact,  when  a femme-auteur — as  Louis 
Veuillot  calls  the  class  of  writers  of  which  Ouida  and 
Rhoda  Broughton  are  representative — begins  to  be  slangy 
and  immodest,  she  must  become  more  so  with  each  book 
she  writes,  in  order  to  hold  her  public,  until  she  merges 
into  blasphemy  and  obscenity.  Ouida,  who  has  become 
a worn-out  writing  hack,  has  reached  this  last  stage.  A 
House  Party  (London:  Hurst  & Blackett)  is  a story  of 
adultery.  The  scene  is  laid  among  English  dukes  and 
duchesses.  The  owners  of  an  English  country-house  in- 
vite a number  of  aristocratic  people  there,  that  the  Sixth 
Commandment  may  be  broken  with  politeness.  Ouida 
tells  about  this  in  a language  invented  by  herself.  The 
French  would  sneer  at  such  a book — not  because  of  its 
immorality,  but  because  of  its  stupidity.  Dr.  Cupid 
(Philadelphia:  Lippincott  & Co.)  is  a story  told  weari- 
somely in  the  present  tense.  There  is  a country  girl, 
whose  vigorous  arms,  pet  foxes,  and  flowers  grow  more 
and  more  tiresome.  There  is  one  of  the  creatures  created 
by  Rhoda  Broughton,  sensual  and  silly  and  slangy;  and 
there  is  a vulgar  married  woman  who  enamels  her  com- 
plexion, and  who  is  divided  between  love  for  her  child  and 
passion  for  a man  who  is  not  her  husband.  A House 
Party  and  Dr.  Cupid,  and  all  other  books  by  their  authors, 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


145 


are  signs  of  social  decomposition,  like  phosphorescent 
lights  over  stagnant  pools  where  slimy  things  breed  and 
die. 

Crawford:  “ Sarracinesca.” 

Howells:  “The  Minister's  Charge;  or,  The  Ap- 
prenticeship of  Lemuel  Barker.” 

Craddock:  “In  the  Clouds.” 

Three  notable  novels  are  Sarracinesca , by  F.  Marion 
Crawford ; The  Minister's  Charge ; or,  The  A ppr entice  ship 
of  Lemuel  Barker,  by  William  Dean  Howells;  and  I?i  the 
Clouds , by  Charles  Egbert  Craddock  (Miss  Murfree). 
These  three  authors  are  Americans.  Sarracinesca  is  a 
work  of  art,  of  admirable  clarity  and  harmony  of  style  and 
truth  of  portraiture.  Mr.  Crawford’s  pictures  of  Roman 
society  before  the  spoliation  are  admirable.  The  relations 
of  the  old  Roman  prince  and  his  son  are  described  in  a 
manner  worthy  of  Thackeray.  And  so  firm  and  true  is 
Mr.  Crawford’s  treatment  of  his  epoch  and  his  personages 
that — so  far  as  Sarracinesca  is  concerned — it  is  impossible 
not  to  compare  him  with  the  greatest  masters  of  his  craft. 
It  is  a pity  that  the  story  of  the  Princess  Sarracinesca 
could  not  have  been  written  without  the  putting  into  it  of 
that  illicit  passion  that  sent  Dante’s  Paolo  and  Francesca 
to  hell;  but  it  is  plain  that  Mr.  Crawford,  unlike  the 
femmes-auteurs,  does  not  describe  passion  in  order  to  in- 
spire passion  in  others.  Mr.  Crawford’s  opening  chap- 
ters, in  which  he  satirically  contrasts  the  Rome  of  Pope 
Pius  IX.  with  the  Rome  of  the  spoliators,  are  delightful. 
His  is  a very  strong  pen ; it  is  well  to  see  it  in  use  against 
the  vain  and  superficial  spirit  which  is  flippantly  destroy- 
ing at  once  the  religion  and  the  art  of  the  world. 

Mr.  Crawford  makes  an  etching  of  the  Roman  as  he 
was  and  is: 


146  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


“ But  Rome  in  those  days  was  peopled  solely  by  Romans, 
whereas  now  a large  proportion  of  the  population  consists  of  Italians 
from  the  north  and  south,  who  have  been  attracted  to  the  capital  by 
many  interests — races  as  different  from  its  former  citizens  as  Germans 
or  Spaniards,  and,  unfortunately,  not  disposed  to  show  overmuch 
good-fellowship  or  loving-kindness  to  the  original  inhabitants.  The 
Roman  is  a grumbler  by  nature,  but  he  is  also  a 4 peace-at-any-price  ’ 
man.  Politicians  and  revolutionary  agents  have  more  than  once 
been  deceived  by  these  traits,  supposing  that  because  the  Roman 
grumbled  he  really  desired  change,  but  realizing  too  late,  when  the 
change  has  been  begun,  that  the  Same  Roman  is  but  a luke-warm 
partisan.  The  Papal  government  repressed  grumbling  as  a nuisance, 
and  the  people  consequently  took  a delight  in  annoying  the  authori- 
ties by  grumbling  in  secret  places  and  calling  themselves  conspirators. 
The  harmless  whispering  of  petty  discontent  was  mistaken  by  the 
Italian  party  for  the  low  thunder  of  a smothered  volcano  ; but,  the 
change  being  brought  about,  the  Italians  find  to  their  disgust  that 
the  Roman  meant  nothing  by  his  murmurings,  and  that  he  now  not 
only  still  grumbles  at  everything,  but  takes  the  trouble  to  fight  the 
government  at  every  point  which  concerns  the  internal  management 
of  the  city.  In  the  days  before  the  change  a paternal  government 
directed  the  affairs  of  the  little  State,  and  thought  it  best  to  remove 
all  possibility  of  strife  by  giving  the  grumblers  no  voice  in  public  or 
economic  matters.  The  grumblers  made  a grievance  of  this;  and 
then,  as  soon  as  the  grievance  had  been  redressed,  they  redoubled 
their  complaints  and  retrenched  themselves  within  the  infallibility  of 
inaction,  on  the  principle  that  men  who  persist  in  doing  nothing  can- 
not possibly  do  wrong.” 

It  is  refreshing  to  read  this  summing-up  of  fashionable 
science  and  art: 

u Those  were  the  days,  too,  of  the  old  school  of  artists — men 
who,  if  their  powers  of  creation  were  not  always  proportioned  to  their 
ambition  for  excellence,  were  as  superior  to  their  more  recent  succes- 
sors in  their  pure  conceptions  of  what  art  should  be  as  Apelles  was  to 
the  Pompeiian  wall  painters,  and  as  the  Pompeiians  were  to  modern 
house-decorators.  The  age  of  Overbeck  and  the  last  religious  paint- 
ers was  almost  past,  but  the  age  of  fashionable  artistic  debauchery 
had  hardly  begun.  Water-color  was  in  its  infancy  ; wood-engraving 
was  hardly  yet  a great  profession  ; but  the  ‘ Dirty  Boy  ’ had  not  yet 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


147 


taken  a prize  at  Paris,  nor  had  indecency  become  a fine  art.  The 
French  school  had  not  demonstrated  the  startling  distinction  between 
the  nude  and  the  naked,  nor  had  the  English  school  dreamed  night- 
mares of  anatomical  distortion. 

“ Darwin’s  theories  had  been  propagated,  but  had  not  yet  been 
passed  into  law,  and  very  few  Romans  had  heard  of  them  ; still  less 
had  any  one  been  found  to  assert  that  the  real  truth  of  these  theories 
would  be  soon  demonstrated  retrogressively  by  the  rapid  degeneration 
of  men  into  apes,  while  apes  would  hereafter  have  cause  to  congratu- 
late themselves  upon  not  having  developed  into  men.” 

Mr.  Howells  has  neither  the  dramatic  strength  of  Mr. 
Crawford,  nor  his  respect  for  the  ideal  in  literature,  nor 
his  fluent  and  correct  style ; but  he,  like  all  the  more  im- 
portant male  American  writers,  has  absolute  purity  of 
tone.  Lemuel  Barker,  the  young  New  England  rustic 
who  goes  to  Boston,  falls  into  temptation,  but  into  no 
temptation  of  the  grosser  kind  in  which  the  true  follower-- 
of  the  realists  would  delight  to  wallow.  The  truth  is  that 
Mr.  Howells,  though  he  professes  to  be  a realist  and  to 
describe  life  as  it  is,  is  not  a realist.  He  paints  the  life 
around  him  as  he  chooses  to  see  it.  He  fits  his  human 
TSeiilgs'  for  presentation  in  the  pages  of  a family  magazine 
and  in  novels  which  may  be  read  by  every  young  girl  in 
the  country.  He  impresses  us  as  a sincere  and  pure- 
minded  gentleman  who  arranges  his  groups,  carefully 
chosen,  each  member  with  his  working-clothes  on,  and 
then  photographs  them.  But  this  is  not  realism.  Tur- 
gueneff,  and  Tolstoi,  and  De  Goncourt,  and,  above  all, 
Zola,  would  repudiate  this  method  and  manner.  WhemN 
Mr.  Howells  aims  to  be  most  realistic  he  generally  sue-  ) 
ceeds  in  being  commonplace. 

His  women  characters  are  carefully  photographed  and 
gently  colored  until  they  almost  resemble  the  miniatures 
of  an  artist.  The  trifles  of  life  are  so  much  a part  of  the 
surroundings  of  women  that  when  Mr.  Howells  describes 


148  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

the  trifles  and  the  moods  which  turn  on  these  trifles,  we 
think — that  is,  if  we  do  not  think  very  closely — that  we 
recognize  the  woman.  Statira  and  ’Manda  Greer,  the 
giggling  working-girls  of  The  Minister's  Charge , are  known 
by  certain  tricks  of  manner  and  speech  common  to  the 
most  frivolous  class  of  Boston  working-girls.  But  we 
learn  nothing  of  their  inner  lives — if  they  have  any. 
Lemuel’s  love-making  in  the  boarding-house  room  is  in- 
nocent enough ; but  we  feel  that  it  is  not  Lemuel’s  tender 
New  England  conscience  or  Statira’s  principles  which 
make  it  innocent,  but  the  fact  that  Mr.  Howells  (though 
invisible,  and  with  an  eye  to  the  fact  that  he  writes  for 
American  families)  is  a most  careful  chaperon. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Sewall,  the  minister  whose  amiable  habit 
of  telling  pleasant  fibs  has  brought  Lemuel  to  Boston,  is 
a charming  character.  He  is  true  to  life  and — we  really 
must  admit  it — something  more  than  a photograph.  He 
ministers  to  a very  respectable  Boston  flock ; he  is  sin- 
cere in  spite  of  his  amiable  fibs ; he  wants  to  do  right  and 
to  be  father-confessor  to  his  people,  without  the  faintest 
knowledge  of  moral  theology  or  any  training  for  the  work, 
except  a good  heart  and  some  experience  of  the  human 
race  in  general  and  the  Bostonians  in  particular.  If  Mr. 
Howells  had  intended  to  show  how  inefficient  the  most 
conscientious  Protestant  minister  is,  so  far  as  the  healing 
of  mental  and  spiritual  wounds  go,  he  could  not  have  bet- 
ter demonstrated  it  than  in  showing  us  Mr.  Sewall.  Mrs. 
Sewall  is  a woman  of  strong  common  sense,  who  has  suf- 
fered much^  from  the  subtle  super-sensitiveness  of  her 
husband.  To  her  Lemuel,  with  his  recurring  mental 
difficulties  and  his  demands  on  the  minister’s  time  for 
sermon-writing,  is  a great  trial. 

Lemuel  in  Boston  developes  a gradual  appreciation  of 
the  niceties  of  life.  He  has  left  a sordid  country  home, 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  149 

where  his  mother  wears  bloomers  and  his  brother-in-law 
does  all  manner  of  unpleasant  things.  He  runs  up  the 
scale  from  horse-car  conductor  to  reader  to  a cultured 
old  Bostonian.  He  thinks  himself  hardly  good  enough 
to  marry  the  giggling  Statira,  pushed  on  by  her  energetic 
friend,  ’Manda  Greer.  And  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sewall  thinks,^ 
too,  that  he  will  throw  himself  away  if  he  tie  himself  to  the 
pretty,  silly,  and  hopelessly  narrow-minded  Statira.  In 
the  meantime  Lemuel  meets  a girl  higher  in  the  social 
plane — an  artist — and  Lemuel  and  she  fall  in  love  with 
each  other.  Mrs.  Sewall  is  indignant  at  the  concern 
which  Lemuel’s  friends  show  in  the  fear  that  Statira  may 
drag  him  down,  after  the  marriage  has  been  arranged. 

“ ‘ Oh!  his  future.  Drag  him  down!  Why  don’t  you  think  of  her 
going  up  there  to  that  dismal  wilderness  to  spend  her  days  in  toil  and 
poverty,  with  a half-crazy  mother-in-law  and  a rheumatic  brother-in- 
law,  in  such  a looking  hovel  ?’  Mrs.  Sewall ’did  not  group  these  dis- 
advantages conventionally  ; but  they  were  effective.” 

Lemuel  himself  feels  that  he  is  a martyr.  He  contem- 
plates taking  his  wife  back  to  his  native  village,  Wil- 
loughby Pastures,  and  of  gradually  causing  that  place  to 
live  up  to  him  and  Boston.  The  young  artist  is  in  the 
greatest  affliction.  She  knows  that  Lemuel  loves  her 
better  than  he  loves  Statira.  She  asks  Mr.  Sewall’s  ad- 
vice in  the  matter,  without  mentioning  names.  He  gives 
her  very  unsatisfactory  counsel.  And  so  Lemuel — though 
Mr.  Howells,  everybody  in  the  book,  and  perhaps  the  too 
sympathetic  reader  fears  that  he  is  “ throwing  himself 
away” — drifts  toward  matrimony  with  Statira.  Statira  is 
threatened  with  consumption ; we  are  divided  between  a 
coming  pathetic  death-bed  and  a possible  unhappy  mar- 
riage. But  when  we  have  been  made  sufficiently  afraid 
that  she  shall  die,  and  quite  as  much  afraid  that  she  will 
live,  Mr.  Howells  gets  her  to  change  her  mind,  and  she 


150  MODERN  NO  VELS  AND  NO  VEL/STS. 

goes  off  with  her  steadfast  friend,  ’Manda  Greer,  in  search 
of  a better  climate.  In  this  way  the  cunning  author  leaves 
Lemuel  free  to  marry  the  young  artist. 

’Manda  Greer  is  a vigorous  creature,  and  the  episode 
of  her  attack  on  Lemuel  because  he  lets  Statira  pine  away 
without  proposing  is  truly  natural,  and  in  a play  would 
“ bring  down  the  house  ” at  the  end  of  an  act. 

Miss  Murfree  (Charles  Egbert  Craddock)  is  not  one  of 
Louis  Veuillot’s  “ femme s-auteurs”  who  have  increased  so 
greatly  of  late  among  our  neighbors,  the  English,  that 
Koko,  in  The  Mikado , asserts  that  they  “ never  will  be 
missed.”  There  is  “ too  much  paper  ” in  In  the  Clouds 
(Houghton,  Mifflin  & Co.,  Boston  and  New  York),  and 
yet  it  would  be  hard  to  say  what  could  be  left  out.  Miss 
Murfree  has  practically  discovered  the  mountains  of  East 
Tennessee  and  added  a new  world  to  American  literature. 
It  is  a fresh  and  breezy  world.  Nobody  that  has  acquired 
a taste  for  it  will  ever  breathe  the  patchouli  and  carbonic- 
acid  gas  of  Ouida,  Rhoda  Broughton,  and  their  train  of 
“ lady  novelists.”  It  is  the  fashion  to  compare  Miss  Mur- 
free with  George  Eliot.  Why,  it  would  puzzle  even  the 
people  who  compare  Thackeray  with  Dickens,  or  Na- 
thaniel Hawthorne  with  Irving,  to  tell.  In  the  Clouds  is 
certainly  as  great  a novel  as  Adam  Bede , which  also  has 
the  fault  of  containing  “ too  much  paper.”  Mink,  the 
hero  of  In  the  Clouds , is  as  careful  a study  of  human  sel- 
fishness as  Tito  in  Romola , though  Mink  somewhat  re- 
deems himself  in  the  end.  But  Miss  Murfree  has  none 
of  George  Eliot’s  self-consciousness,  and — thank  Heaven! 
— none  of  her  philosophy. 

The  “ poor  whites  ” of  the  Tennessee  mountains,  with 
their  rudimentary  religion,  their  crude  manners  and  shift- 
less ways,  are  painted  with  a sure  hand,  artistic  skill,  and 
a sympathy  felt  by  the  reader,  but  hardly  verbally  ex- 


MODERN  NO  FEES  AND  NOVELISTS.  15 1 

pressed  by  Miss  Murfree.  Alethea’s  home  is  thus  de- 
picted : 

“The  little  log-cabin  set  among  its  scanty  fields,  its  weed-grown 
‘ gyarden  spot,’ and  its  few  fruit-trees,  was  poor  of  its  kind.  The 
clap-boards  of  its  roof  were  held  in  place  by  poles  laid  athwart  them, 
with  large  stones  piled  between  to  weight  them  down.  The  chim- 
ney was  of  clay  and  sticks,  and  leaned  away  from  the  wall.  In  a cor- 
ner of  the  rickety  rail-fence  a gaunt,  razor-backed  hog  lay  grunting 
drowsily.  Upon  a rude  scaffold  tobacco-leaves  were  suspended  to 
-dry.  Even  the  martin-house  was  humble  and  primitive — merely  a 
post  with  a cross-bar,  from  which  hung  a few  large  gourds  with  a cav- 
ity in  each,  whence  the  birds  were  continually  fluttering.  Behind  it 
all,  the  woods  of  the  steep  ascent  seemed  to  touch  the  sky.  The 
place  might  give  a new  meaning  to  exile,  a new  sentiment  to  loneli- 
ness. Seldom  it  heard  from  the  world — so  seldom  that  when  the 
faint  rifle-shots  sounded  in  the  distance  a voice  from  within  demanded 
eagerly,  ‘ What  on  yearth  be  that,  Lethe  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Shootin’  fur  beef  down  in  the  cove,  I reckon,  from  thar  firin’ 
so  constant,’  drawled  Alethea. 

“ ‘ Ye  dunno,’  said  the  unseen,  unexpectedly  derisive  at  this  con- 
jecture. ‘ They  mought  be  a-firin’  thar  bullets  into  each  other.  No- 
body kin  count  on  a man  by  hisself,  but  a man  in  company  with  a 
rifle  air  jes’  a outdacious,  jubious  critter.’  ” 

Alethea’s  stepmother  spoke  as  one  who  had  much  ex- 
perience of  the  male  sex  as  found  in  the  land  of  hidden 
whiskey-stills  and  moonlighters.  Alethea  is  the  heroine 
of  the  book,  and  a noble  one.  It  is  a great  thing  to  say 
of  Miss  Murfree’s  art  that  the  girl’s  drawl  and  queer  pro- 
nunciation never  seem  ridiculous  or  repel  our  sympathy. 
But  never  for  a moment  are  the  outside  characteristics, 
rude,  uncouth,  ungrammatical,  lost  sight  of.  She  is  as 
noble  as  Jeannie  Deans,  and  we  forget  her  tricks  of  speech 
and  her  ignorance  in  the  greatness  of  her  heart  and  her 
self-sacrifice.  She  has  a keener  sense  of  right  than  most 
of  the  mountaineers,  whose  principle  article  of  belief 
seems  to  be  firm  faith  in  the  eternal  torments  to  be  suf- 
fered by  their  neighbors.  Mink,  a handsome,  gay,  but 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


I52 

shallow  herdsman,  has  been  making  love  to  her.  Her 
stepmother  thus  sums  up  the  position  at  the  beginning  of 
the  story: 

“ An’  ye  tired  his  patience  out — the  critter  had  mo’  ’n  I gin  him 
credit  fur — an’  druv  him  off  at  last  through  wantin’  him  to  be  other- 
wise. An’  now  forlks  ’low  ez  him  an’  Elviry  Crosby  air  a-goin’  ter 
marry.  I’ll  be  bound  she  don’t  harry  him  none  ’bout’n  his  ways,  ’kase 
her  mother  told  me  ez  she  air  mighty  nigh  a idjit  ’bout’n  him,  anT  hev 
turned  off  Peter  Rood,  who  she  hed  promised  ter  marry,  though  the 
weddin’  day  had  been  set,  an’  Pete  air  wuth  forty  sech  ez  Mink/” 

From  Alethea’s  attempt  to  bring  Mink  up  to  her  level, 
and  to  make  him  follow  the  pafbr  her  untutored  sense  of 
right  points  out,  many  evils  flow.  Mink  . becomes  en- 
tangled in  the  net  of  the  law,  Peter  Rood  dies  suddenly 
during  a scene  of  great  but  restrained  power,  and  Ale- 
thea’s true  character  is  brought  out  by  severe  strain  and 
suffering.  In  the  Clouds  is  not  a hopeful  book,  it  is  some- 
times sombre,  but  it  is  relieved  by  delightful  touches  of 
humor.  Alethea’s  aunt,  a remarkable  personage,  furnishes 
many  of  them: 

“ The  log-cabin  had  heard  the  river  sing  for  nearly  a century. 
It  appeared  for  many  years  the  ready  prey  of  decay  ; the  chimney 
leaned  from  the  wall,  the  daubing  was  falling  from  the  chinking,  there 
were  holes  in  the  floor  and  roof.  Suddenly  a great  change  came  over 
it.  The  frivolity  of  glass  enlivened  the  windows,  where  batten 
shutters  had  formerly  sufficed  ; a rickety  little  porch  was  added  ; a 
tiny  room  was  partitioned  off  from  this,  and  Mrs.  Purvine  rejoiced  in 
the  distinction  of  possessing  a company  bed-room,  which  was  far 
from  being  a haven  of  comfort  to  the  occasional  occupant  of  those 
close  quarters.  She  had  always  been  known  to  harbor  certain  ambi- 
tions. Her  husband’s  death,  some  two  or  three  years  before,  had 
given  her  liberty  to  express  her  tastes  more  fully  than  when  hampered 
by  his  cautious  conservatism.  And  now,  although  the  fields  might 
be  overrun  with  weeds,  and  the  sheep  have  the  rot  and  the  poultry 
the  cholera,  and  the  cow  go  dry,  and  the  ‘gyarden  truck’  defer  to  the 
crab-grass,  arid  the  bees  — clever  insects — prepare  only  sufficient 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


153 


honey  for  their  own  use,  Mrs.  Purvine  preserved  the  appearance  of 
having  made  a great  rise  in  life,  and  was  considered  by  the  casual 
observer  a ‘ mighty  spry  widder  woman.’  Such  a one  as  Mrs.  Sayles 
shook  her  head  and  spared  not  the  vocabulary.  ^Dely,’  she  would 
observe,  ‘air  my  husband’s  sister,  an’  I an’t  goin’  to  make  no  words 
about  her.  Ef  she  was  ennybody  else’s  sister,  I’d  up  and  down 
declar  ez  she  hev  been  snared  in  the  devices  o’  the  devil,  fur  sech 
pride  ez  hern  an’t  godley — naw,  sir  ! nur  religion  nuther.  Glass  in 
the  winder ! Shucks  ! She’d  better  be  thinkin’  ’bout  gittin’  light  on 
salvation — that  she  hed  ! Forlks  ez  knowed  Dely  whenst  she  war  a 
gal  knowed  she  war  headin’  and  sot  agin  her  elders,  an’  run  away 
from  home  ter  git  married,  an’  this  is  what  kem  of  scch  onregenerate 
ways.  Glass  in  the  winder  ! I’ll  be  bound  the  devil  looks  through 
that  winder  every  day  at  yer  Aunt  Dely  whenst  she  sits  thar  and  spins. 
Naw,  sir,  yer  Aunt  Dely’ll  remember  that  winder  in  the  darkness  o’ 
Torment,  an’  ef  she  war  ennybody  else’s  sister1  than  my  own  husband’s 
Td  say  sod  ” 

Mrs.  Purvine  also  has  her  own  religious  opinions.  When 
Mink,  in  hiding,  asks  what  she  will  say  if  they  “ ax  her,” 
she  promptly  replies : 

“‘Waal,  lies  is  healthy.’  Mrs.  Purvine  accommodated  her 
singular  ethics  to  many  emergencies.  * Churchyards  are  toler’ble  full, 
but  thar  an’t  nobody  thar  ez  died  from  tellin’  lies.  Not  but  what  I’m 
a perfessin’  Christian,’  she  qualified,  with  a qualm  of  conscience,  ‘an’ 
hev  renounced  deceit  in  general ; but  if  ennybody  kerns  hyar  inquirin’ 
roun’  ’bout  my  business — what  I done  with  this  little  mite  o’  meat, 
an’  that  biscuit,  an’  the  t’other  pot  o’  coffee — I answer  the  foolish 
accordin’  to  his  folly,  like  the  Bible  tells  me,  an’  send  him  rejicin’ 
on  his  way.’  ” 

The  character  of  Judge  Gwinnan  is  strong,  perfectly 
understood  by  the  author,  and  perfectly  expressed.  For 
a time  a slight  fear  arises  that  he  may  marry  Alethea,  by 
whose  beauty  and  nobility  he  is  evidently  moved.  This 
could  have  only  made  both  more  unhappy  than  they  are 
finally  left  by  the  author ; for  no  observer  of  human  life 
can  doubt  that  if  the  judge  in  Whittier’s  sentimental 


154  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

verses  had  married  Maud  Muller  it  would  have  been  a 
bad  thing  for  both  of  them.  Judge  Gwinnan’s  case  is 
somewhat  analogous.  Miss  Murfree’s  In  the  Clouds  is 
an  important  addition  to  genuine  American  literature. 

Woolson:  “ Rodman  the  Keeper.” 

Miss  Constance  Fenimore  Woolson’s  Rodman  the  Keeper 
(New  York:  Harper  & Bro.)  is  a volume  of  short  stories. 
East  Angels , clever  as  it  was,  left  a bad  taste  in  the  mouth. 
There  was  no  excuse  for  the  suggestion  of  immorality  in- 
troduced into  one  scene  of  that  well-told  story.  In  Rod- 
man  the  Keeper  there  is  an  intense  love  of  color  in  nature. 
Floridian  everglades,  rivers,  and  orange-groves  start  out 
vividly  before  our  eyes,  as  the  figures  do  in  the  popular 
cycloramas  of  the  battles  of  the  late  civil  war.  Miss 
Woolson’s  men,  like  the  men  created  by  most  women 
writers,  are  artificial  and  priggish.  “ Miss  Elizabetha  ” is 
a story  in  Miss  Woolson’s  best  manner.  There  is  a re- 
fined and  soft-toned  description  of  the  quiet  life  of  Miss 
Elizabetha  in  her  house  on  the  Florida  coast.  She  teaches 
her  nephew  ancient  romanzas,  learned  long  ago,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  a tinkling  piano.  Miss  Elizabetha, 
once  a gentlewoman  of  means,  teaches  music,  sells  the 
product  of  her  orange-grove,  plaits  palmetto — all  for  the 
sake  of  hoarding  money  for  her  half-Spanish  nephew. 
The  sisters  at  the  convent  near  paid  her  to  teach,  “ and 
were  glad  to  call  in  Miss  Elizabetha  with  her  trills  and 
quavers ; so  the  wiry  organ  in  the  little  cathedral  sounded 
out  the  ballads  and  romanzas  of  Monsieur  Vicard,  and 
the  demoiselles  learned  to  sing  them  in  their  broken 
French,  no  doubt  greatly  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  gol- 
den-skinned old  fathers  and  mothers  on  the  plantations 
down  the  coast.  The  padre  in  charge  of  the  parish  had 
often  importuned  Miss  Elizabetha  to  play  this  organ  on 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS, ’.  155 

Sundays,  as  the  decorous  celebration  of  High  Mass  suffered 
sadly,  not  to  say  ludicrously,  from  the  blunders  of  poor 
Sister  Paula.  But  Miss  Elizabetha — who  was  from  the 
North — “briefly  refused:  she  must  draw  a line  some- 
where, and  a pagan  ceremonial  she  could  not  countenance. 
The  Daarg  family,  while  abhorring  greatly  the  Puritanism 
of  the  New  England  colonies,  had  yet  held  themselves 
equally  aloof  from  the  image-worship  of  Rome ; and  they 
had  always  considered  it  one  of  the  inscrutable  mysteries 
of  Providence  that  the  French  nation,  so  skilled  in  polite 
attitude,  so  versed  in  the  singing  of  romanzas,  should  yet 
have  been  allowed  to  remain  so  long  in  ignorance  of  the 
correct  religious  mean.” 

But  after  a while  the  half-Spanish  nephew  marries  a 
pretty  Minorcan  and  reverts  to  the  original  type,  leaving 
poor  Miss  Elizabetha  to  wonder  where  all  her  thrifty 
training  has  gone.  Miss  Woolson  is  fond  of  contrasting 
the  hard  New  England  Puritan  with  the  Creole  Catholic, 
and  she  succeeds  very  well  in  this;  and  Catholics  have  no 
reason  to  complain  of  her  treatment  of  such  of  their  quali- 
ties as  she  can  grasp.  “ Sister  St.  Luke  ” is  an  improbable 
narrative;  but  the  gentleness,  piety,  and  purity  of  the 
quaint  religious  are  undoubted,  though  her  simpleness  is 
perhaps  somewhat  overdrawn 

Mulholland:  “ Marcella  Grace." 

The  novel  of  Irish  domestic  life  has  an  exponent  of  high 
talent — we  are  almost  justified  in  using  the  mighty  word 
genius — in  Miss  Rosa  Mulholland.  Her  Marcella  Grace 
(Harper  & Bros.)  is  an  admirable  novel,  in  no  way  infe-  t 
rior,  yet  differing  in  quality  from  two  of  the  most  charm- 
ing stories  of  late  years,  The  Wicked  Woods  of  Tobevervil 
and  The  Birds  of  Killeevy. 


156  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

Kickham:  “For  the  Old  Land/' 

For  the  Old  Land , by  the  late  Charles  J.  Kickham 
(Dublin:  M.  H.  Gill  & Son),  opens  with  a description  of 
an  Irish  farm-interior  after  the  manner  of  Gerald  Griffin, 
and  Mrs.  Dwyer’s  idiosyncrasies  give  a promise  which 
the  rest  of  the  novel  does  not  fulfil.  The  twenty-two 
illustrations  are  mostly  as  bad  as  they  can  be. 

Besant:  “ Children  of  Gibeon.” 

The  question  of  satisfying  the  needs  of  the  poor  by  cur- 
tailing the  privileges  and  remodelling  the  habits  of  the 
rich  is  found  to  be  of  ceaseless  interest  to  contemporary 
novel-writers.  Mr.  Walter  Besant  treats  it  in  his  Chil- 
dren of  Gibeon  (Harper  & Bros.)  He  does  not  advocate 
violent  means.  To  close  up  the  chasm  yearly  widening 
in  civilization  between  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  rich 
must  extend  their  hearts  and  their  hands ; voluntary  self- 
sacrifice  on  their  part  must  follow  a completer  understand- 
ing of  the  real  needs  of  the  poor.  Mr.  Besant  imagines 
an  improbable  plot,  in  order  to  make  an  impressive  novel. 
Lady  Mildred  Eldridge  adopts  the  daughter  of  a washer- 
woman who  has  a large  family,  and  whose  husband — in 
statu  quo  at  the  beginning  of  the  story — has  been  a bur- 
glar. She  has  one  infant  daughter.  She  mixes  the  two 
girls  up — calling  one  Violet,  the  other  Valentine.  They 
are  brought  up  after  the  manner  of  patrician  young  women. 
Valentine  studies  the  working-people  in  London,  and  as 
nearly  as  possible  makes  herself  one  of  them,  in  the  be- 
, lief  that,  when  Lady  Mildred  will  declare  which  is  which, 
she  will  be  found  to  be  the  washerwoman’s  daughter.  She 
gets  very  near  to  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  learns  that 
tracts  and  condescensions  are  not  the  means  of  helping 
those  who  most  need  help.  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary 
taught  this  long  ago,  as  did  St.  Francis  d’ Assisi;  but  our 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  157 

novelists  do  not  go  to  the  saints  for  lessons.  Mr.  Besant 
does  not  think  that  Protestantism  can  help  the  poor,  and 
he  seems  to  know  very  little  of  the  church.  He  does  not 
say  how  he  would  keep  his  working-girls  good  and  pure 
after  they  had  been  well  fed,  decently  clothed,  and  inno- 
cently amused.  After  all,  people  who  are  clean  and  in- 
dustrious and  fond  of  music  commit  hideous  crimes; 
therefore,  though  Mr.  Besant  does  not  seem  to  see  it, 
something  more  is  needed  to  save  the  world.  Marcus 
Aurelius  was  a keen  philosopher  and  a plausible  one ; but 
Jesus  Christ  alone  could  take  away  the  curse  from  life 
and  the  sting  from  death.  Valentine  turns  out  to  be  the 
patrician,  and  she  elects  to  live  and  work  among  the  poor ; 
Violet  clings  to  riches  and  shudders  at  the  coarseness  of 
poverty:  education  has  triumphed  over  plebeian  blood. 
Mr.  Besant’s  people  are  clear-cut  and  individual.  His 
sneers  at  the  confessional  are  perfunctory.  His  novel  is 
worth  reading  and  thinking  about. 

Woolson:  “ East  Angels.” 

A novel  which  has  had  a great  success  is  East  Angels , 
by  Constance  Fenimore  Woolson,  author  of  Anne  (Harper 
& Brothers).  It,  too,  is  long,  making  five  hundred  and 
ninety-one  pages.  East  Angels  is  a place  near  the  town 
of  Gracias-a-Dios  in  Florida.  Miss  Woolson  paints  the 
blue  sky,  the  oranges,  the  roses,  the  miasmatic  swamps  of 
Florida,  with  a sure  and  leisurely  hand.  The  sketches 
of  Floridians  themselves  are  delightfully  humorous  and 
sympathetic.  The  Northerners  who  come  to  this  spot 
blessed  with  perpetual  sunlight  are  vigorously  etched. 
Mrs.  Rutherford  is  a type  of  the  selfish  and  cold  woman 
of  fashion  and  wealth,  growing  old,  with  no  god  but  com- 
fort and  no  consolation  but  gratified- vanity.  Her  manner 
of  judging  people. is  not  uncommon,  and  it  has  too  often 


I58  MODERN  NOVELS  AND'  NOVELISTS. 

its  effect  in  ruined  reputations  whose  ruin  can  be  traced 
to  prejudices  like  those  of  Mrs.  Rutherford: 

“ If  Mr.  X.  had  been  polite  to  her,  if  he  had  been  attentive, 
deferential  he  was  without  doubt  (if  at  all  presentable)  a most  de- 
lightful and  praiseworthy  person  in  every  way.  If  Mr.  X.  had  been 
civil  to  a certain  extent,  yet  on  the  whole  rather  indifferent,  he  was  a 
little  dull,  she  thought  ; a good  sort  of  a man,  perhaps,  but  not  in- 
teresting ; tiresome.  If  Mr.  X.  had  simply  left  her  alone,  without 
either  civility  or  incivility,  she  was  apt  to  have  mysterious  intuitions 
about  him,  intuitions  which  she  mentioned,  confidentially,  of  course, 
to  her  friends  ; little  things  which  she  had  noticed — indications.  Of 
bad  temper?  Or  was  it  bad  habits?  It  was  something  bad,  at  any 
rate  ; she  was  very  ingenious  in  reading  the  signs.  But  if  Mr.  X. 
had  been  guilty  of  actual  rudeness  (a  quality  which  she  judged  strictly 
by  the  standard  of  her  own  hidden  but  rigorous  requirements),  Mr. 
X.  was  immediately  thrust  beyond  the  pale — there  was  no  good  in 
him  ; in  the  Way  of  odious  traits  there  was  nothing  which  she  did  not 
attribute  to  him  at  one  time  or  another  ; she  could  even  hint  a darker 
guilt.  She  wondered  that  people  should  continue  to  receive  him,  and 
to  her  dying  day  she  never  forgot  to  give,  upon  opportunity,  her 
well-aimed  thrust — a thrust  all  the  more  effective  because  masked  by 
her  reputation  for  amiability  and  frank,  liberal  qualities.” 

Mrs.  Rutherford  and  Garda  Thorne — the  latter  the 
daughter  of  a Floridian  of  Spanish  descent  and  of  a New 
Hampshire  mother — are  exemplifications  of  the  triumph 
of  selfishness  over  all  finer  qualities.  Garda  is  a very 
charming  creature  in  appearance.  All  the  unmarried  men 
who  have  come  together  in  Gracias-a-Dios  fall  in  love 
with  her,  and  one  of  the  married  men  follows  suit.  Garda, 
who  is  utterly  regardless  of  the  proprieties,  and  who  has 
no  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  promises  to  marry  Evert 
Winthrop,  but  coolly  drops  him  when  she  finds  she  likes 
Lucian  Spenser  better.  Spenser  is  married,  but  that 
makes  no  difference  to  Garda.  Margaret  Harold,  the 
real  heroine  of  the  novel,  has  taken  Garda  under  her 
protection ; she  remonstrates  with  this  strange  young  girl, 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 159 

who  seems  to  be  unconscious  of  her  duties  to  God,  who 
is  more  like  a faun  than  a human  being.  Garda  merely 
replies,  “ There’s  one  thing  that  may  happen : I may  stop 
caring  for  Lucian  of  my  own  accord  before  long.  You 
know  I stopped  caring  for  Evert.”  Garda  further  insists 
that  it  is  better  to  be  true  to  one’s  feelings,  whatever  they 
are,  than  to  tell  lies  just  to  make  people  think  well  of  you. 

Margaret  is  helpless  before  the  girl’s  frankness;  but 
she  does  not  attempt  to  arouse  Garda  to  a sense  that  her 
regard  for  a married  man  is  guilty  in  the  sight  of  God. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Moore,  whose  character  is  drawn  with  a 
fine  sense  of  humor,  has  had  the  religious  care  of  Garda 
— so  far  as  a Protestant  Episcopal  rector  can  have  the 
spiritual  care  of  one  of  his  flock,  when  his  mission  seems 
to  be  so  decidedly  social  as  that  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Moore’s 
was.  We  naturally  expect  to  hear  Garda  respond  to 
some  appeal  to  a supernatural  motive  for  the  avoidance 
of  sin.  But  no  such  appeal  is  made  by  Margaret  who 
later  makes  a most  heroic  sacrifice  herself,  because  she 
believes  that  marriage  is  indissoluble.  In  spite  of  all  the 
admirable  qualities  of  Miss  Woolson’s  work — its  power 
restrained  and  disciplined,  its  charming  humor  saved  by  a 
genial  sympathy  from  being  satire,  and  its  introduction 
into  the  literature  of  American  fiction  of  a new  element 
essentially  American — the  lack  of  the  highest  Christian 
motives  as  influencing  the  actions  of  her  personages  is  a 
grave  defect.  It  is  impossible  that  Garda  should  not  have 
known  right  from  wrong,  or  that  she  should  go  joyously  to 
keep  an  assignation  with  a married  man  without  some 
feeling  of  guilt.  Even  had  Garda  been  brought  up  an 
Agnostic  there  would  still  have  been  some  self-conscious- 
ness. Then  Margaret  might  have  considered  it  hopeless 
to  have  mentioned  the  name  of  Christ  or  to  have  spoken 
of  the  claims  of  Christian  modesty.  As  it  is,  Miss  Wool- 


160  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

son  asks  us  to  believe  that  this  brilliant  young  siren  of 
Gracias-a-Dios  had  neither  soul  nor  conscience.  This  is 
demanding  more  than  any  artist  who  cares  for  vraisem- 
blance  should.  Garda  becomes,  when  she  ceases  Xo  laugh 
at  the  antics  of  her  pet  crane  or  swing  gaily  in  her  ham- 
mock, while  her  overburdened  little  mother  does  the  work, 
a disjointed  and  unrealizable  creature.  Margaret  Harold’s 
character  is  always  presented  in  a noble  aspect.  She 
married,  when  very  young,  one  of  the  most  heartless  speci- 
mens of  the  male  sex  conceivable — a sensualist  made  tol- 
erable to  his  friends  by  a kind  of  sardonic  serenity.  He 
coolly  deserts  her,  and  goes  to  Europe  to  renew  his  rela- 
tions with  “ a French  lady  of  rank.”  He  returns,  fearing 
that  his  health  is  breaking,  to  be  nursed  by  Margaret. 
He  has  never  made  any  concealment  of  his  vices  and 
his  infidelity.  He  asserts  his  right  to  Margaret’s  service, 
and  she  admits  it  without  complaint.  Lanse,  her  hus- 
band, thus  describes  the  situation  when  he  serenely  pro- 
poses to  desert  his  wife  for  a time : “ Her  point  was  that 
I must  not  go ; I am  not  very  yielding,  as  you  know,  but 
she  was  even  more  obstinate  than  I was.  It  was  owing 
to  the  ideas  she  had  about  such  things;  she  wasn't  a 
Roman  Catholic,  but  she  thought  marriage  a sacrament, 
almost.”  Lanse  remains  at  Gracias-a-Dios  for  a time, 
paralyzed  and  helpless ; but,  getting  better,  he  starts  again 
for  Europe,  following  his  old  attraction.  Margaret  has 
discovered  that  she  loves  Evert  Winthrop,  the  rejected 
suitor  of  Garda,  and  Winthrop  returns  her  affection. 
When  her  husband  disappears  she  goes  with  Winthrop  to 
look  for  him  in  the  swamps.  The  boat-ride  through  these 
pathless,  dank,  and  weird  spots,  where  the  waters  are  alive 
with  moccasins  and  strange,  perfumed  vines  mingle  with 
interlacing  trees,  is  described  with  vividness  and  strength. 
Winthrop  and  Margaret  are  tempted,  and  the  temptation 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  161 

is  needlessly  elaborated.  It  becomes  very  plain  indeed 
that  Margaret  need  only  show  the  slightest  sign  of  yield- 
ing to  become  a Francesca  di  Rimini.  The  French  do 
not  put  situations  like  this  into  their  novels  for  young 
girls ; but  perhaps  Miss  Woolson  did  not  write  East  Angels 
for  young  girls.  It  is  a pity  that  she  should  apply  her 
wonderful  equipment  to  the  evolution  of  situations  in  J 
which  the  sympathy  of  the  tender-hearted  reader  must 
naturally  be  on  the  side  of  wrong.  Margaret,  in  whose 
religious  belief  divorce  from  her  husband  would  have 
seemed  proper  enough,  refuses  Winthrop,  that  she  may 
wait  until  her  husband  returns  a second  time,  utterly  help- 
less. If  she  were  a Catholic,  believing  that  marriage  is 
indissoluble,  her  sacrifice  would  have  a motive.  As  it  is, 
she  reaches  a supernatural  height  of  self-sacrifice  without 
even  a natural  incentive.  She  devotes  herself  to  Lanse, 
who  settles  down  to  a quiet  life  because  he  can  no  longer 
be  wicked;  and  so  Margaret’s  career  ends.  Miss  Wool- 
son  might  have  made  Margaret  more  satisfactory  by  giv- 
ing her  the  only  reason  for  the  existence  of  such  self-sac- 
rifice— a high  religious  one ; and  the  book  need  not  have 
been  a religious  novel.  The  principal  personages  are 
spoiled  by  their  entire  lack  of  conscience,  although  Mar- 
garet will  be  thought  by  many  readers  to  have  too  much. 
Miss  Woolson  fails  to  reach  the  truth  in  her  clever  paint- 
ings of  human  beings,  because  she  has  that  fatal  timidity 
which  emasculates  much  modern  literature — the  fear  of 
boldly  referring  to  God  as  a living  God. 

Greey:  "The  Captive  of  Love.'’ 

The  translation  of  The  Loyal  Nonius  from  the  Japa- 
nese whetted  the  appetite  of  the  public  for  more  romances 
from  the  same  source.  The  appearance  of  Mr.  Edward 
Greey’s  adaptation  of  Bakin’s  Kumono  Tayema  Ama  Yo 
6 


162 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  * 


No  Tsuki  (“  The  moon  shining  through  a cloud-rift  on  a 
rainy  night v)  is  due  to  the  interest  aroused  by  that 
book  in  the  beliefs  and  customs  of  this  strangely  childlike 
yet  singularly  mature  people.  Mr.  Greey  calls  his  trans- 
lation The  Captive  of  Love  (Boston:  Lee  & Shepard). 
Bakin’s  romances  are  looked  on  as  classic  in  Japan.  They 
represent  the  every-day  life  of  the  Japanese  of  five  hun- 
dred years  ago,  and  give  the  key  to  the  Japanese  life  of 
to-day.  The  mikado  and  the  empress  of  Japan  have  in- 
formed Mr.  Greey  of  the  pleasure  they  have  had  in  see- 
ing this  famous  Japanese  book  in  an  English  dress.  Mr. 
Greey  has  acquired  the  art  of  giving  the  quaint  aroma  of 
Bakin’s  diction,  and  the  illustrations  from  the  original 
work  are  very  harmonious  with  the  text.  The  Buddhis- 
tic belief  in  metempsychosis  forms  the  basis  of  the  story  of 
a priest  ( bozu ) who,  instead  of  remaining  in  the  temple  of 
Shin-gon  sect  of  Buddhists  and  praying  for  the  eternal 
happiness  of  his  parents,  was  led  away  by  love  to  the 
breaking  of  his  vows  and  the  commission  of  many  crimes. 
Bakin  tells  with  charming  naivetd  the  results  of  unfaith- 
fulness and  fraud,  the  consequence  of  disrespect  to  parents, 
and  particularly  of  omitting  to  pray  for  their  souls  that 
they  may  more  speedily  pass  through  their  various  forms 
of  life  and  attain  seats  on  the  golden  lotus — which  is 
complete  annihilation.  The  Captive  of  Love  is  both  amus- 
ing and  instructive.  Nowhere  else  can  more  information 
about  the  thoughts  and  the  methods  of  the  Japanese  be 
so  easily  derived.  Whether  we  owe  it  to  Bakin,  the 
pagan,  or  to  Mr.  Greey,  the  Christian,  there  is  nothing 
objectionable  in  The  Captive  of  Love.  In  it  we  find  the 
very  essence  of  Japanese  life.  Manzoni’s  L Promessi 
Sposi  is  not  more  redolent  of  Italy  than  this  delightful  ro- 
mance is  of  Japan.  It  is  invaluable  to  all  who  would 
like  to  understand  the  religion,  the  manners  and  customs 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


163 


of  the  Japanese,  which  are  only  now  beginning  to  change. 
We  owe  to  Mr.  Greey  and  to  his  wife,  a graduate  of  an 
English  convent  school,  who  has  ably  assisted  him,  a debt 
of  gratitude  for  this  valuable  addition  to  our  literature. 

Luska:  “Mrs.  Peixada.” 

Mrs.  Peixada  is  a new  novel  by  Sydney  Luska,  author 
of  As  It  Was  Written  (Cassell  & Co.)  Mr.  Luska’s  art 
of  casting  a romantic  glamour  over  every-day  New  York 
scenes,  and  the  directness  with  which  he  attacks  his 
themes,  have  gained  him  much  vogue.  Mrs.  Peixada  is 
a Jewess,  of  course,  who  kills  her  husband,  a very  unpleas- 
ant Jew,  in  self-defence,  and  marries  a Christian.  Mr. 
Luska — whose  real  name  is  Harlan — seems  to  believe 
that  the  great  future  for  the  Jews  is  an  amalgamation  with 
Christians  and  the  production  of  a light  and  sweet  Spi- 
noza-like state  of  things.  He  is  a clever  writer,  of  great 
promise,  striking  out  a new  line  for  himself,  and  not 
dazzled  by  the  claims  of  the  analytical  school  of  fiction. 
Whether  the  hero,  Arthur  Ripley,  adopted  the  creed  of 
his  Jewish  wife,  or  she  his,  Mr.  Luska  does  not  say;  and 
therefore  we  cannot  say  whether  the  American  Jew  or 
Jewess  of  the  future  will  believe  in  anything  or  not. 

Sturgis:  “John  Maidment.” 

John  Maidment \ by  Julian  Sturgis,  is  a wholesome 
novel,  well  written,  manly,  and  having  a purpose.  John 
Maidment  is  a handsome,  strong-brained,  well-educated 
young  Englishman.  He  starts  in  life  encumbered  by 
only  one  thing — a debt  of  gratitude.  He  sacrifices  his 
convictions  and  principles  to  success.  He  gains  all  that 
he  wants,  and  yet,  though  no  outward  calamity  overtakes 
him,  though  he  has  married  an  earl’s  daughter  who  adores 
him,  though  he  seems  on  his  way  to  the  British  Cabinet, 


164  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

he  feels  that  he  has  not  gained  the  truest  success.  Mr. 
Sturgis  manages  his  story  with  consummate  skill.  Novels 
like  John  Maidment  almost  reconcile  the  reviewer  to  the 
task  of  sifting  “ light  ” literature. 

Walloch:  “The  King’s  Treasure  House/' 

The  King's  Treasure  House , by  Wilhelm  Walloch,  trans- 
lated from  the  German  by  Mary  J.  Safford  (New  York: 
Gottsberger),  is  an  Egyptian  romance  of  the  time  of  the 
Hebrew  captivity.  It  is  after  the  manner  of  Georg  Ebers. 
It  gives  the  impression  that  the  Jews  of  the  era  of  Ra- 
ineses were  people  any  prudent  monarch  would  allow  to 
depart  with  pleasure  from  his  dominions.  King  Arthur , 
by  Miss  Muloch  (Harper’s),  is  a very  pure,  pathetic, 
and  beautiful  story.  A Victorious  Defeat,  by  Wolcott 
Balestier,  is  a curious  study  of  the  manners  of  the  Penn- 
sylvanian Moravians. 

Craven:  “ Le  Valbriant.” 

Mrs.  Craven,  whose  Sister's  Story,  Eliane,  and  Fiat- 
range  are  read  and  re-read  by  thousands  of  admirers,  has 
written  another  novel,  LeValbriant  (Paris:  Perrin  & Co.), 
now  in  its  sixth  edition.  It  has  been  published  in  Eng- 
land under  the  title  of  Lucie,  and  it  will  shortly  appear 
with  an  American  reprint. 

There  are  not  so  many  novelists  offering  antidotes  to 
the  literary  poison  that  permeates  society  that  any  book 
of  fiction  written  with  a high  motive  can  be  neglected. 
Mrs.  Craven,  who  is  acknowledged  by  critics  entirely  out 
of  sympathy  with  her  motives  as  a writer  of  the  first  class, 
is  in  the  first  rank  of  those  who  use  all  the  graces  of  a 
polished  style,  a refined  art,  a vivid  but  restrained  imag- 
ination in  the  interest  of  Christian  morality.  Le  Valbriant 
has  all  these  attributes.  It  has  been  complained  of  Mrs. 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  165 

Craven  that  she  limits  herself  too  much  to  the  atmosphere 
of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  that  all  her  characters 
are  drawn  from  the  life  of  the  society  which  is  called 
“good,”  and  that  she  is  too  sentimental.  Mrs.  Craven 
does  well  to  confine  herself  to  the  society  she  knows  best. 
In  no  novels  of  the  present  time  is  there  less  snobbish- 
ness shown.  If  her  people  have  been  affected  by  an  ar- 
tificial and  very  rarefied  state  of  society,  it  is  not  because 
she  wills  it  so,  but  because  they  are  so.  The  lesson  of 
all  her  books — that  of  Le  Valbriant  as  well  as  the  others 
— is,  life  is  not  long  enough  for  love.  Its  best  expression 
is  the  famous  motto  of  the  ring  in  A Sister  s Story — La 
vie , c'est  trop  court  In  one  of  the  closing  passages  of  Le 
Valbriant  she  repeats  it : 

“ The  sun — a winter’s  sun,  but  pure  and  brilliant — rose  the  next 
day  in  a cloudless  sky.  All  the  people  of  Valbriant,  we  may  well  be- 
lieve, took  part  in  the  festival.  Father  Severin  was  at  the  altar,  at 
the  foot  of  which  Lucie  and  Gauthier  had  just  knelt.  It  was  not  an 
ordinary  marriage.  Suffering  had  left  deep  traces  in  the  two  lives 
that  were  about  to  mingle,  and,  for  these  spouses,  happiness  was  not 
without  gravity.  But  in  the  sotils  of  both  a sort  of  security  which  the 
most  ardent  hopes  of  earth  are  powerless  to  give  assured  'them  of  the 
future , the  undefined  future.  If  it  had  been  said  to  them  that  they 
were  united  for  life , they  would  have  answered : 4 C’est  tiop  court , la 
vie  ! ' ” 

If  this  is  sentimentalism  it  is  of  a very  high  order — so 
high,  indeed,  that  Mrs.  Craven  deserves  all  praise  for 
teaching  it.  In  nearly  all  novels  marriage  is  the  end. 
The  books  close  as  soon  as  the  union  of  the  hero  and 
heroine  is  announced.  They  are  supposed  to  have  at- 
tained the  sum  of  human  happiness.  They  enter  into  a 
flowery  garden  spanned  by  perpetual  rainbows  which  will 
last  for  ever.  Life  is  long  enough  for  them,  and  they  de- 
sire nothing  better.  But  Mrs.  Craven’s  teaching  is  very 
different.  She  believes  with  Madame  Swetchine  that 


i66 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


marriage  is  the  beginning,  not  the  end;  that  the  Sacra- 
ment of  Matrimony  is  a preparation  for  eternal  life,  and 
that  human  love  would  be  worthless  if  it  were  not  irra- 
diated by  the  hope  of  eternal  love. 

When  this  doctrine  is  taught  by  a writer  who  in  exqui- 
site taste,  style,  and  force  of  interest  is  the  equal  of  the 
novelist  of  fashionable  France,  Octave  Feuillet,  we  ought 
to  be  grateful  that  Providence  has  raised  up  such  a teacher. 
A Sister’s  Story  has  become  a classic,  Fleurange  has  been 
translated  into  all  the  languages  of  Europe,  and  we  are 
justified  in  considering  the  appearance  of  Le  Valbriant 
as  an  event  of  great  literary  importance.  The  scene  is  laid 
near  a quiet  village  of  France,  where  stands  the  Chateau 
de  Bois  d’Harlay.  Count  Geoffrey  lives  in  the  old  house 
with  his  servants.  He  had  been  an  emigrant.  In  Lon- 
don he  had  met  Leontine  de  Lerens,  whose  father  had 
been  slaughtered  during  the  Terror.  Leontine  was  work- 
ing hard  to  support  her  grandmother,  the  Duchess  de 
Lerens.  He  and  all  the  London  colony  of  French  gen- 
tlemen were  toiling  as  they  had  never  before  dreamed  of 
working.  Charmed  with  Leontine’s  beauty  and  self-sac- 
rifice, he  married  her  at  London  just  as  the  white  flag 
was  unfurled  in  honor  of  the  accession  of  Louis  XVIII. 
Madame  de  Bois  d’Harlay,  who  had  accepted  misfortune 
so  bravely,  was  not  equal  to  her  sudden  accession  to 
the  splendid  place  that  was  her  own  by  birth.  She  saw 
no  difference  between  the  France  of  Louis  XVI.  and 
that  of  Louis  XVIII. ; and  her  good-fortune  was  embit- 
tered by  her  husband’s  disposition  to  accept  things  as 
they  were. 

The  character  of  the  Countess  de  Bois  d’Harlay  is  de- 
scribed with  fineness  of  perception.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
important  in  Le  Valbriant.  Although  the  countess  is 
made  to  die  in  an  early  chapter,  her  influence  moulds  the 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVEL/STS.  167 

lives  of  her  husband  and  daughter.  Mrs.  Craven  has 
made  a very  instructive  and  subtle  picture  of  the  state  of 
mind  of  so  many  French  aristocrats  who  found  wealth  • 
and  luxury,  shorn  of  the  privileges  of  their  order,  more 
than  they  could  endure. 

Lucie  de  Bois  d’Harlayhas  made  an  unhappy  marriage, 
but  a splendid  one  in  the  eyes  of  her  late  mother.  Count 
Geoffrey,  al(^ne  in  his  chateau,  knows  that  his  daughter 
has  married  a villain,  and  he  suffers  with  her  in  imagina- 
tion. He  is  a dignified  and  noble  personage.  He  finds  . 
some  consolation  in  the  friendship  of  his  neighbor  at  Le 
Valbriant — a village  which  has  been  made  a model  for 
the  vicinity  and  all  France  by  Gauthier  d’Arcy,  whose 
father  had  accepted  the  new  order  of  things  and  turned 
his  chateau  into  a foundry.  Mrs.  Craven’s  solution  of  a 
social  problem  will  doubtless  meet  with  some  vigorous 
criticism  from  the  irreconcilables  who  read  her  novels; 
there  are  not  many  of  them  who  would  be  willing  to  save 
the  country  around  them  from  poverty  and  the  crimes 
that  extreme  poverty  fosters  by  devoting  their  castles  to 
the  purposes  of  trade.  The  usual  French  novelist  would 
have  made  a thrilling  romance  out  of  the  unhappy  mar- 
ried life  of  Lucie,  in  which  passion  would  play  a great 
part.  Mrs.  Craven  gives  us  the  picture  of  a wife  who  has 
received  the  Sacrament  of  Matrimony  worthily,  and  who 
knows  the  duty  of  a wife.  It  would  be  a pity  in  this  case 
to  tell  by  what  means  Lucie  finally  marries  the  proprietor 
of  Le  Valbriant  and  enters  into  the  plans  of  her  husband 
for  the  improvement  of  his  workmen.  It  is  sufficient  to 
say  that  it  is  brought  about  by  no  violation  of  probability 
or  propriety ; and  when  we  close  Le  Valbriant  we  feel  as 
if  we  had  spent  our  time  in  the  society  of  people  whose 
lives  are  impregnated  with  Catholic  teaching,  though  there 
is  no  word  of  controversy  in  the  book 


i68 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 


Howe:  "The  Moonlight  Boy.” 

Mr.  E.  W.  Howe’s  The  Story  of  a Country  Town  was  an 
• unexpected  success.  The  Moonlight  Boy — his  latest  novel 

— will  no  doubt  find  many  readers.  It  is  less  sombre  than 
his  first  book ; it  is  characterized  by  directness  and  nov- 
elty of  manner.  There  is  no  analysis,  no  self-conscious- 
ness. Mr.  Howe  sketches  from  life  as  he  sees  it,  without 
reference  to  the  old  masters.  His  lights  and  shadows  are 
sometimes  exaggerated ; he  has  none  of  the  delicate  man- 
ipulations that  are  so  noticeable  in  Messrs.  Howells  and 
James;  but  he  has  the  courage  and  the  power  to  interpret 
things  for  himself.  The  moonlight  boy  is  a foundling  who 
has  been  adopted  by  a kind-hearted  husband  and  wife, 
Tibby  and  Mrs.  Cole.  Tibby  is  a musician,  a teacher  of 
singing-schools,  country  brass  bands,  and  a seller  of  organs. 
Just  about  the  time  that  the  supposed  paternity  of  the 
moonlight  boy  is  discovered,  and  he  is  sent  to  take  his 
place  as  a “ Courtlandt,  of  Bleecker  Street,”  “ Queen 
Mary,”  the  only  child  of  the  Coles,  appears,  and  Tibby 
leaves  off  drinking.  From  this  time  the  downfall  of  the 
Coles  begins,  in  the  opinion  of  the  moonlight  boy.  Tibby 
was  so  much  more  genial  as  a singing-master  in  his  cups 
than  out  of  them  that  his  chronicler  regrets  his  reform ! 
The  experiences  of  the  country  boy,  with  neither  good 
looks,  good  manners,  nor  education,  in  New  York,  are 
told  in  a crisp  and  original  manner.  Mr.  Howe’s  hero  has 
nothing  to  recommend  him  to  the  reader  or  to  that  fate 
which  awards  glory  to  the  heroes  of  novels,  except  good 
impulses  and  a lively  sense  of  gratitude.  The  humor  of  the 
book  is  natural  and  seems  unconscious.  It  has  the  merits 
of  Dickens’  earlier  novels,  without  being  at  all  an  imitation 
of  him.  The  moonlight  boy  has  an  experience  in  the 
office  of  the  Night  Watch,  a religious  weekly  of  immense 
circulation  in  the  country.  The  only  man  who  believed 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  169 

in  the  highly  moral  doctrines  taught  in  this  great  weekly 
was  the  figure-head  of  the  concern,  who  was  not  allowed 
to  do  anything.  Barton,  the  manager  of  this  concern, 
runs  away  from  his  family,  with  some  reason,  it  must  be 
confessed.  It  is  regrettable  that  Mr.  Howe  should  have 
permitted  Barton,  who  is  represented  as  a man  to  be 
pitied  and  even  admired,  to  abet  his  wife  in  obtaining  a 
divorce.  The  Moonlight  Boy  is  a collection  of  odd  people 
who  have  hearts — or  parts  of  hearts — but  no  souls  to  speak 
of. 

Cook:  “The  Sphynx’s  Children  and  Other 
People’s.” 

The  Sphynx's  Children  and  Other  People' s,  by  Rose 
Terry  Cook,  author  of  Somebody's  Neighbors  (Boston: 
Ticknor  & Co.),  is  made  up  of  short  stories  of  New  Eng- 
land life.  They  suffer  from  the  literary  limitations  which 
injure  the  effect  of  short  stories.  It  is  only  a very  great 
master  who  can  write  a thoroughly  satisfactory  short  story. 
The  weakness  of  Miss  Cook’s  stories  is  the  weakness  of 
most  short  stories — the  sudden  transitions  at  the  end. 
No  more  graphic  pictures  of  New  England  farm-life  have 
ever  been  put  into  print.  The  dreariness  of  Millet’s 
French  peasants  striving  to  wrest  a living  from  small 
patches  of  soil,  and  working  from  dawn  to  sunset,  is  gayety 
itself  in  comparison  with  the  awful  grimness-  of  the  life  of 
the  New  England  farmer  of  the  last  generation.  The 
French  peasants  have  their  consolatory  and  hopeful  An- 
gelus,  symbolical  of  their  religion  of  joy  and  hope;  but 
for  the  Puritan  New-Englander  there  was  no  joy  on  earth 
and  little  hope.  The  “Account  of  Thomas  Tucker”  is 
one  of  the  best  things  in  the  book.  Thomas,  the  son  of  a 
hard  New  England  farmer,  becomes  the  pastor  of  a fash- 
ionable church,  and  makes  himself  unpopular  by  calling  a 


i7° 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


spade  a spade  and  pointing  out  the  sins  of  the  people, 
until  his  congregation  resolve  to  get  rid  of  him.  Miss 
Cook  tells  of  the  life  he  and  his  sister  had  led  under  the 
rule  of  their  father,  “ who  ploughed  the  brown  sod  of  the 
sad  New  England  hills  under  the  full  force  of  the  prime- 
val curse.” 

“Amasa  was  a hard  man,  gathering  where  he  had  not  strewn, 
and  reaping  where  he  had  not  sown,  and  a tyrant  where  a man  can  be 
tyrannical  in  safety — in  his  own  home.  Two  children  out  of  ten  sur- 
vived to  this  pair.  Abundant  dosing,  insufficient  food,  and  a neglected 
sink-drain  had  killed  all  the  others  who  outlived  their  earliest  infancy  ; 
but  these  two  avoided  the  doom  that  had  fallen  on  their  brother  and 
sisters,  by  the  fate  which  modern  science  calls  the  survival  of  the 
fittest,  and  spindled  up  among  the  mullein-stalks  of  their  stone-strewn 
pastures  as  gray,  lank,  dry,  and  forlorn  as  the  mulleins  themselves  ; 
with  pale  eyes,  straight,  white  hair,  sallow  faces,  and  the  shy  aspect 
of  creatures  who  live  in  the  woods  and  are  startled  at  a strange  foot- 
step. They  were  taught  to  work  as  soon  as  they  could  walk,  to  con- 
sider sin  and  holiness  the  only  things  worth  consideration,  to  attend 
meeting  as  a necessity,  and  to  take  deserved  punishment  in  silence. 
To  obedience  and  endurance  their  physical  training,  or  want  of  train- 
ing, conduced  also  ; alternate  pie  and  pork  are  not  an  enlivening  diet 
to  soul  and  body,  and  play  was  an  unknown  factor  in  their  dreary  ex- 
istence/’ 

Astor:  “Valentino.” 

If  Mr.  W.  W.  Astor’s  Valentino  had  been  written  by  a 
gentleman  whose  name  would  have  been  less  of  an  adver- 
tisement it  is  doubtful  whether  it  would  have  so  soon  found 
its  way  into  a fourth  edition.  As  a novel  it  has  no  rea- 
son to  exist.  As  a historical  picture  of  the  times  it  has  a 
certain  worth,  but  no  more  than  a dozen  books  already 
printed.  With  Roscoe’s  Leo  X.  and  Machiavelli’s  Prince 
any  man  of  ordinary  perception  could  have  made  quite 
as  good  a picture.  Mr.  Astor,  with  his'  opportunities, 
might  haVp  made  better  use  of  his  materials.  The  “ new 


MODERN  NO  EELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  171 

view”  of  Lucrezia  Borgia  which  the  advertisements  of 
Valentino  promised  us  turns  out  to  be  an  old  view.  No 
reader  of  the  history  we  call  Italian  ever  imagined  that 
the  character  of  Lucrezia  Borgia  was  that  of  a fiend ; but 
every  indolent  frequenter  of  the  theatre  and  lounger  over 
light  novels  accepted  a vile  view  of  a woman  who  had 
human  faults,  but  more  than  counterbalancing  Christian 
virtues.  Mr.  Astor  takes  the  vulgar  side  as  to  Pope  Alex- 
ander VI. 

Howells:  “Indian  Summer.” 

India7i  Summer  (Boston:  Ticknor  & Co.)  is  the  novel 
of  an  artistic  realist — a literary  photographer  who  is  care- 
ful how  he  poses  his  sitters.  Any  book  from  the  pen  that 
wrote  A Modern  Instance  and  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham 
is  sure  of  a large  circle  of  readers.  Mr.  Howells  is  not  a 
great  writer.  He  is  more  like  Miss  Austen  than  Thack- 
eray, and  worthy  to  be  compared  to  M.  Alphonse  Daudet, 
who  is  not  a great  writer  either,  but,  in  manner,  a very 
charming  one.  India?i  Summer  is  characterized  by  that 
serene  good-humor  and  delicate  sarcasm  and  keenness  of 
observing  small  symptoms  of  character  which  make  one 
of  the  chief  qualities  of  Howells’  work.  But  it  is  not  as 
robust  in  character  as  A Modern  Instance  or  Silas  Lapham. 
It  is  realistic,  but  its  realism,  being  tinged  with  foreign 
color,  will  not  provoke  the  appreciation  that  followed  all 
the  delightful  photography  of  A Modern  Instance , or  the 
shouts  of  applause  that  were  drawn  out  by  the  tableau  of 
Silas  Lapham’s  false  step  at  the  Corey  dinner.  Mr. 
Howells’  new  success  in  Silas  Lapham  throws  Lndian 
Summer  into  the  shade. 

Jackson:  “ Zeph:  a Posthumous  Story/' 

Mrs.  Jackson’s  (“  H.  H.”)  novel  Ra?nona  should  have 
been  her  last.  It  was  characterized  by  all  the  best  quali- 


172  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

ties  of  her  nature,  which  towards  the  end  and  best  part  of 
her  literary  career  seemed  to  be  getting  more  and  more 
in  sympathy  with  the  church,  whose  inspiration  and  influ- 
ence she  honored  cordially  in  her  remarkable  series  of 
papers  on  the  early  missions  in  California.  Ramona , like 
Ben  Hur , is  one  of  the  late  books  that  a careful  critic  can 
recommend.  It  is  a worthy  monument  to  the  memory  of 
a woman  of  letters  of  whose  fame  every  American  has 
reason  to  be  proud.  In  her  earlier  performances,  even 
in  her  poems,  there  were  traces  of  prejudice  against  the 
church ; but  in  her  later  and  fuller  work  there  was  a ten- 
derness and  sympathy  for  the  church  and  her  priests  that 
have  left  on  the  minds  of  Catholics,  drawn  towards  her  by 
the  articles  on  Fra  Junipero  Serra  and  the  novel  Ramona, 
a grieving  wonder  that  she  did  not  at  last  become  one  of 
that  visible  circle  to  which  she  seemed  to  be  tending. 
Zeph:  a Posthumous  Story  (Boston:  Roberts  Brothers)  has 
insight  into  character,  pathos,  keen  humor,  and  sympathy 
with  the  sufferings  of  poor  humanity;  but  it  should  not 
have  come  after  that  well-rounded  book,  Ramona.  Miss 
Sophy  Burr  is  a New  England  old  maid  keeping  a thrifty 
boarding-house  in  a Colorado  town.  She  is  not  an  unu- 
sual type  of  the  Eastern  old  maid  as  found  in  stories. 
Her  angularities  have  all  a kind  of  grim  humor  about 
them.  She  has  opinions  of  her  own : 

“ ‘ Just  look  at  that  man  all  doubled  up  there  in  the  poor-pews. 
I do  declare,’  she  says,  looking  at  the  interior  of  the  Presbyterian 
church — ‘ I do  declare,  I think  it’s  a shame  to  have  any  such  thing  as 
1 poor-pews ; it’s  a kind  o’  badge  o’  disgrace  to  sit  there  ; I’ve  known 
lots  n’  lots  o’  poor  folks  that  wouldn’t  set  foot  in  ’em,  not  if  they 
never  heard  a sermon  t’  their  dyin’  day,  they  said.  I always  feel 
ashamed  when  I go  by  and  shut  the  door  t’  my  pew.  It’s  borne  on 
me ’t  ’an’t  Christian.  I think  the  Catholics  are  lots  better  ’n  we  are 
about  that — lots.  There  an’t  anything  but  poor-pews  ’n  their 

churches,  ’n  that’s  the  way  it  ought  to  be — free  to  all.  ’ 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 


173 


“ * How  you  do  talk,  Sophy  ! ’ replied  her  companion,  good  Mrs. 
Jones.  ‘Why  don’t  you  be  a Catholic  ’n’  done  with  it,  if  you  think 
their  way ’s  so  much  better  than  ours  ? ’ 

“ ‘ I don’t,’  retorted  Miss  Sophy — ‘nothin’  o’  the  kind.  But  I 
say  they’ve  got  the  right  idea  of  seatin’  people.  No  wonder  they  get 
all  the  poor  people  ; I should  think  they  would.’” 

Zeph  is  a miserable  and  inconsistent  specimen  of  hu- 
manity. His  wife,  Rushy,  is  a disreputable  creature,  who 
disappears  at  intervals,  taking  the  children  with  her. 
Zeph  drops  work  during  these  intervals  and  sneaks  about 
his  wife’s  haunts,  waiting  patiently  for  her  to  return  to 
him.  He  knows  that  she  is  leading  a shameful  life  with 
dissolute  companions,  but  he  congratulates  himself  that 
she  has  the  children  with  her.  Miss  Sophy,  thrifty  and 
capable,  takes  a fancy  to  the  shiftless,  Zeph,  and,  when 
his  wife  succeeds  in  divorcing  herself  from  him  and  in 
“marrying”  one  of  her  admirers,  Miss  Sophy  marries 
Zeph,  who  with  the  greatest  coolness,  which  contrasts  sin- 
gularly with  his  former  absurd  devotion  to  his  wife,  pre- 
pares to  leave  Colorado  and  his  children,  to  begin  life 
over  again  with  Miss  Sophy.  The  story  is  not  finished, 
but  from  the  outline  left  by  the  dying  writer  it  is  plain 
that  the  breach  of  morality  made  by  Zeph  and  Miss  Sophy 
in  marrying  was  not  condemned  by  her. 

Picard:  “Mission  Flower.” 

A story  with  a new  flavor  is  Dr.  George  H.  Picard’s 
Mission  Flower  (New  York:  White,  Stokes  & Allen).  It 
is  a thoroughly  American  novel,  without  any  touch  of 
New-Englandism — which  is  singular.  There  is  really,  so 
far  as  we  have  seen,  no  allusion  to  the  Mayflower  or  to 
Boston.  The  scene  is  laid  among  Americans  of  Spanish 
blood,  in  a new,  far  western  country.  There  are  several 
English  people  introduced,  but  they  are  not  presented  to 


174  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS . 

us  in  the  usual  self-conscious,  international  way.  Nelly 
Paradise,  whose  father  sends  her  to  America  to  prevent 
her  from  entering  the  church,  falls  into  a very  nest  of 
Jesuits  at  the  mission  of  St.  Xavier’ s-i n-the- Valley ; she 
is  perhaps  a little  frivolous,  but  very  real ; and  so  truly 
does  she  appear  to  the  reader  that  one  is  in  doubt  whether 
her  apparent  frivolity  is  not  solely  due  to  the  author’s 
point  of  view.  What  plot  there  is  is  badly  managed. 
The  author’s  efforts  at  tragedy  always  end  in  the  serio- 
comic. For  instance,  the  villain  of  the  book,  Manuel 
Silva,  who  is  only  half  a villain,  can  get  nobody  to  do  him 
justice.  He  begs  the  officers  of  the  law  to  imprison  him ; 
but  they  will  not  take  the  risk  of  committing  the  murderer 
of  an  unpopular  man  to  prison,  and  so  he  is  forced  to  live. 

If  Miss  Paradise  is  somewhat  giddy  and  her  desire  to 
enter  a convent  is  directed  by  the  “ becomingness  ” of  the 
habit,  Doha  Sola,  who  hopes  that  she  has  a vocation,  is 
serious  enough.  But  there  is  a vagueness  about  the  reli- 
gious aspirations  of  these  young  women,  both  of  whom 
are  Protestants,  that  throws  a doubt  on  the  perfect  under- 
standing on  the  part  of  the  author  of  the  motives  that  de- 
termine a true  vocation.  He  knows  very  well  the  exterior 
surface  of  Catholic  life;  he  has  evidently  lived  much 
among  Catholics.  One  is  almost  tempted  to  say  that  the 
quaint  humor  of  the  scene  between  Pere  Caron  and  the 
novice,  in  which  Nelly  Paradise  takes  part,  could  only  be 
conceived  by  a Catholic.  Pere  Caron  is  teaching  the 
novice  the  use  of  the  “ irons  ” for  making  the  altar-bread, 
when  Nelly  Paradise  interrupts  him. 

The  old  Jesuit  laughingly  gives  the  burned  and  spoiled 
“ breads  ” to  his  assistant.  Nelly’s  High-Church  horror 
when  one  is  offered  to  her  is-  very  funny  indeed.  . There 
are  a hundred  touches  that  make  one  suspect  that  Dr.  Pi- 
card is  a Catholic,  but  an  undertone  of  humorous  pessimism 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  175 

which  always  casts  the  shade  of  a doubt.  The  charmmg  old 
superior  of  the  Ladies  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  with  her 
courtly  manner  borrowed  from  her  life  in  the  France  of 
by-gone  days,  is  a new  figure  in  literature.  The  author 
of  A Missio?i  Flower  possesses  very  high  talent.  He  is 
the  master  of  a clear  and  plastic  style,  which  is  a worthy 
instrument  for  the  conveyance  of  new  and  interesting  im- 
pressions of  people  and  things. 

Story:  “ Fiammetta:  a Summer  Idyl/' 

Fiammetta : A Summer  Idyl  (Boston,  New  York : Hough- 
ton, Mifflin  & Co.),  by  William  Wetmore  Story,  is  an 
Italian  romance,  and  a very  romantic  romance.  Fiam- 
metta is  the  usually  guileless  Italian  girl ; Count  Marco  is 
the  unusually  guileless  artist  who  finds  in  Fiammetta  an 
ideal  model  and  goes  off  when  he  finds  that  she  is  in  love 
with  him.  The  judicious  reader  will  grieve  or  perhaps 
become  angry  over  Fiammetta’s  foolish  grandparents. 
These  stupid  old  people  have  seen  their  daughter  “ go  to 
the  bad”  through  too  much  “gallivanting”  with  strange 
young  tourists,  but  they  let  Fiammetta  do  as  she  pleases. 
Finally  Fiammetta,  after  Marco  has  gone,  begins  to  fade 
away.  The  village  priest  is  then  introduced. 

“ ‘ I could  not  help  it,  padre,’  she  says.  * I loved  him — I loved 
him  ; and  I love  him  still,  with  all  my  soul  ! To  me  there  is  no  one 
else  in  the  world.  And  he  is  gone,  and  I never  shall  see  him  again, 
and  I do  not  wish  to  live  any  longer.  There  is  nobody  I can  say  this 
to  but  to  you  ; and  oh ! I feel  that  I must  say  it  to  somebody.  I 
have  done  nothing  wrong,  padre,  believe  me — I have  done  nothing 
wrong  ; but  I am  so  unhappy.’  ” 

Padre  Anselm  sends  for  Marco,  and  Fiammetta  dies 
happy.  In  spite  of  a very  correct  style  and  careful  local 
coloring,  artistic  and  poetical  dialogues,  and  other  proper 
accessories,  Fiammetta  is  not  an  interesting  story.  We  are 


I76  MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS. 

told  that  the  characters  are  Italians ; they  have  Italian 
names,  they  utter  an  Italian  word  at  decent  intervals,  but 
they  might  be  Poles  or  Scandinavians,  for  all  that.  It  is 
hard  to  find  fault  with  a novel  in  which  the  proprieties  of 
art  have  been  so  well  consulted,  in  which  the  purity  of 
the  English  language  and  the  conventions  of  life  are  not 
outraged;  but,  nevertheless,  Fiammetta  lacks  vitality, 
without  which  all  other  qualities  in  a novel  are  useless. 

Tolstoi:  “ War  and  Peace.” 

Count  Tolstoi’s  novel,  War  and  Peace , following  his 
recent  exposition  of  his  religious  opinions  in  My  Religion, 
had  a certain  succes  d'estime.  Much  was  expected  from 
it,  and  much  disappointment  was  felt  after  Gottsberger, 
who  is  the  one  New  York  publisher  making  a specialty 
of  translations,  had  printed  it.  It  is  in  two  volumes,  but 
it  does  not  end  there.  The  two  volumes  are  called,  in 
addition  to  the  regular  title,  Before  Tilsit.  Where  it  does 
end  nobody  knows  yet.  It  is  a series  of  pictures  of  Rus- 
sian life,  done  with  evident  fidelity  and  entire  knowledge, 
somewhat  after  the  manner  of  the  Flemish  author,  Hen- 
drik Conscience,  but  in  no  sense  reminding  us  of  Tour- 
gueneff,  by  all  odds  the  greatest,  if  the  saddest,  most  pes- 
simistic and  sceptical,  Russian  writer  known  to  the 
English-reading  public.  War  and  Peace  is  a terrible  pic- 
ture of  Russian  life,  superstitious  at  the  approach  of  death ; 
the  women  frivolous  or  sad,  accepting  the  forms  of  a 
state-degraded  church,  but  seldom  penetrating  to  the  real 
sweetness  and  consolation  of  religion.  The  premature 
love-making  of  the  children  in  one  of  the  aristocratic 
households  described  by  Count  Tolstoi  does  not  seem  to 
strike  him  as  a reprehensible  thing.  Pierre,  who  is  the 
natural  son  of  Count  Besoukhow,  and  on  that  account  re- 
ceived into  the  best  society,  is  a robust  young  man,  de- 


MODERN  NOVELS  AND  NOVELISTS.  177 

spising  conventionalities,  openly  simple  and  honest,  but 
steeped  to  the  eyes  in  all  the  corruption  of  the  circle  of 
young  Russians  to  which  he  belongs.  He  is  a frank  young 
animal,  and  a type  of  the  aristocratic  Russian  youth  not 
yet  Frenchified.  Prince  Andre  and  his  sister  give  hope 
of  better  things ; but  it  is  in  spite  of  all  the  influences  and 
surroundings  of  their  lives.  The  Princess  Marie  man- 
ages, through  purity  of  heart  and  extraordinary  grace,  to 
secure  spiritual  nourishment  in  the  arid  soil  of  Russian 
orthodoxy.  It  is  the  development  of  this  character  and 
that  of  Prince  Andre  that  gives  interest  to  Count  Tolstoi’s 
interminable  succession  of  military  scenes.  To  any  one 
that  wants  to  understand  the  hopelessness  of  Russian  life 
we  commend  War  and  Peace . It  is  strange  that  a charac- 
ter like  that  of  Mme.  Swetchine  could  have  gathered 
beauty  in  such  an  atmosphere. 

Oliphant:  “ A Country  Gentleman.”  “A  House 
Divided  against  Itself.” 

Mrs.  Oliphant’s  novels,  A Country  Gentleman  and  A 
House  Divided  against  Itself  (Harper  & Bros.),  are  worthy 
of  the  only  legitimate  successor  in  English  literature  of 
Miss  Austen.  A Country  Gentleman  is  the  better  of  the 
two.  It  is  told  with  all  Mrs.  Oliphant’s  command  of  quiet 
humor  and  that  gentle,  sub-acid  quality  which  is  not  satire 
or  irony,  but  which  answers  the  purpose  of  either.  A 
Country  Gentleman  introduces  one  of  the  most  outrageous 
prigs  in  existence — a young  man  spoiled  by  his  woman 
relatives.  He  marries  a widow  of  an  affectionate  dispo- 
sition, of  perfect  manners  and  knowledge  of  the  world — a 
country  gentlewoman  with  a touch  of  haute  noblesse.  Mrs. 
Oliphant  is  much  at  home  in  her  delineation  of  these  per- 
sons, who  live  in  those  quiet,  harmonious,  luxurious  inte- 
riors which  she  loves  as  backgrounds.  She  has  no  equal 


1 7 8 MODERN  NO  VELS  AND  NO  V ELI  STS. 

in  her  understanding  of  the  social  “ business  ” of  life,  and 
no  superior  in  her  manner  of  describing  a well-bred  woman. 
Her  domestic  comedies  and  tragedies  are  not  brought 
about  by  the  vulgar  sensationalism  of  chance.  They  arise 
from  the  conflict  or  harmony  of  character,  as  they  do  in 
real  life.  A House  Divided  agamst  Itself  is  a sequel  to 
A Country  Gentleman . The  prig  has  lived  a lonely  life, 
apart  from  his  wife,  in  the  Riviera.  His  daughter  Frances 
is  with  him;  his  daughter  Constance,  and  his  step-son, 
Lord  Markham,  the  main  cause  of  his  separation  from  his 
wife,  have  remained  with  their  mother  in  London.  Fran- 
ces is  a simple  and  sweet  young  girl,  brought  up  by  an 
✓Italian  nurse.  Her  amazement  when  she  finds  herself 
transported  from  the  simplicity  of  Italian  life  to  the  arti- 
ficiality of  London  is  great.  She  cannot  understand  the 
innuendoes  of  those  around  her,  half-tolerant,  half  con- 
demnatory, of  the  immoral  lives  of  the  young  men  she 
meets  and  hears  of.  Her  honesty  and  purity  have  their 
effects,  one  of  which  is  the  reconciliation  of  her  father  and 
mother,  although  the  reader  who  has  followed  them  care- 
fully cannot  help  wondering  how  long  this  will  last.  Mrs. 
Ofliphant  needs  ofify  the  light  of  faith  to  make  the  best  of 
her  stories  the  best  examples  of  what  good  modern  novel  s 
ought  to  be.  But  if  she  does  not  give  faith  its  rightful 
place  in  life,  she  is  at  least  very  reverent.  No  words  of 
hers  wounds  the  Catholic  heart  ; if  she  is  ever  satirical  at 
the  expense  of  anything  having  the  appearance  of  religion, 
it  is  when  she  finds  the  materialism  of  the  English  Estab- 
lishment a tempting  object,  or  its  inconsistencies  a theme 
for  her  fine  humor.  It  is  a - question  whether  Mrs.  Oli- 
phant  can  write  too  much;  like  Trollope,  she  can  never 
exhaust  her  themes  while  Englishmen  live  and  act  come- 
dies and  tragedies  in  every-day  life. 


/ 


